


The Woad In The Woods

by Frizelle



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, eventual weaving with movie plotline, starts before movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 63,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frizelle/pseuds/Frizelle
Summary: While Kyla, a Pict, is hunting in the woods she comes head to head with what she considers an unusual looking 'Roman', Tristan has a decision to make. More to follow, Rated M just in case it heads that way, who knows!





	1. Chapter 1

The Woad in the Woods

Kyla picked her way through the lush forest, making headway by following game trails that occurred naturally with the movements of the local quadrupeds. She would have been delighted to have taken down a small deer on this outing but thought that, realistically, she had ranged far from where she had instructed Calum to wait for her, and the task of hauling it back there or gutting it where she had slain it would have either been too much effort or too time consuming. 

 

She smirked to herself, thinking of their impending reunion. Calum was as inpatient as the next seven year old boy but when his inexperienced hunting skills had cost them two pheasant she had demanded he stay put while she sought out dinner for them both. She knew she had hurt his pride, but also knew that his bruised ego would quickly heal. The afternoon had been slipping by and she could not afford to indulge his eagerness today. She hoped the two fat rabbits swinging from her hip would partially make up for any insult caused. Perhaps, she thought, she could keep an eye out for the leafy green plant that Calum liked his food to be cooked with as a consolatory offering. Though not related by blood, they were as close as kin, sharing the common bond of losing both their parents, his to a Roman attack a few years back, hers through ill health when she was much younger. Their fifteen year age gap never was an issue. 

 

Kyla paused momentarily to stretch her tired shoulder muscles and release her hair from the strip of leather that held it away from her face. Nothing annoyed her so much as a stray hair tickling her skin when she was concentrating on the hunt. She shook out her dark mane, easing the tension caused by the tight binding, which she now fastened around her wrist for safe keeping. Exposing the nape of her neck had been refreshing earlier in the unusually balmy day but there was a bite in the air now that foretold the coming night. She made to continue forward but almost immediately froze as the quiet whinny of a horse carried on the air.

 

Kyla quickly dropped down to a crouch keeping her body low to the ground and without much thought had loosed her hunting dagger from it's sheath. Her heart rate accelerated as she ascertained the direction she'd heard the animal calling from with dismay. It had come from ahead of her, placing it and it's rider between her and Calum.

'No, no, no, no, no' she thought frantically,' what are Romans doing out here?'

Her people lived in a small clearing right in the heart of the woodlands far from the monstrous Wall and not one she knew claimed ownership of such a creature. No, it must be a Roman dog come sniffing too far into the woods. 

 

'Dog, or dogs?' the unwanted thought crossed her mind. She adjusted her trajectory to swing around her previous path and moved as quickly as she dared and as quietly as the forest would allow. She prayed to the Gods the same trees would protect Calum until she reached him.  
'He's an attentive boy; his wits are sharp; he'll hear them before they hear him; he'll seek cover' she reassured herself frantically as she fought not to quickened her pace at the risk of being heard. A gentle pawing at the ground instantly informed her of the position of the restless beast. She had managed to situate herself adjacent to her foe. She paused momentarily with a dilemma, continue on to Calum or intercept the Roman while she had the element of surprise? 

 

Though still far away from her village, dare she risk letting him get any further? She was an accomplished fighter and could boast speed, stealth and agility as her best qualities. Her mother used to joke as a child that she must be part wildcat. Pitting your skills against your mentors and fellow students was one thing but Kyla lacked a taste of true battle. Acting on impulse she began slowly to move closer to where she had detected the presence of the horse. She strained her senses and tried to control her breathing. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her dagger tighter. The flora was harder to navigate away from the trails that criss-crossed it elsewhere and Kyla found it slow going, but eventually caught a glimpse of the animal through the foliage. 

 

A single large, dappled grey stood passively to one side of the trail, it's head to the ground as it tore up chunks of grass from the forest floor. Kyla exhaled slowly, moving minutely to get a better look at the entire creature and it's far more intimidating passenger. She let out a silent hiss as she beheld the animal was riderless and was, in fact, tethered to a tree. Heart rate rising again Kyla quickly scanned the surrounding area in alarm. Where was the bastard? It was apparent the rider had moved forward on foot. Did he dismount because he sensed someone was near? Damn the man, was he a tracker? Kyla began to move instinctively towards the clearing where she had left Calum, keeping within sight of the trail. How much of a head-start did the Roman have? She threw caution to the wind and moved faster than she had before, each step that she didn't sight the foreigner her heart grew heavier.

 

She was getting ever closer to the rendezvous point, heart a flutter, when she spotted something ahead. She paused. The Roman stood some five meters before Kyla with his back to her. Her quick eye took in the details rapidly. He was not dressed as other Roman soldiers she'd seen before at a distance. His leather attire was more foreign looking than even they wore, with dozens of metal rings covering his jerkin. He was tall and his dark hair fell unkempt to his shoulders.  
Most telling of all, perhaps, was the utter stillness with which he held himself. His posture was straight, shoulders back, head inclined down and slightly to one side. He knew she was there, Kyla comprehended immediately, and he was waiting for her move. He had a bow and quiver on his back but more worryingly was the long blade at his side which currently resided in its sheath. Her dagger and the slingshot she carried were no match for it. The moment stretched on. If she backed away would he leave her be? If she ran, would he follow? Lead him away from Calum, or attack him now? Kyla knew she could not fight whilst in retreat. Quick, decide!

 

Kyla sprang forward, realising she had to give Calum the best possible chance to get away. She hastened through what branches stood in her way, dagger at the ready, not uttering a sound. She had hoped to have the advantage of him having to draw his weapon but by the time her dagger flashed out within reach of him he had parried her hasty slash with his larger blade, sending a shock up her right arm with the impact. She was used to being the smaller opponent and knew her best tactic was to tire her rival out before going in for a fatal blow. Kyla danced away from him again, leaving herself open for an obvious attack which she could easily deflect ,but her adversary did not seem to be falling for it like the boys in her village usually did. He stood motionless, poised, ready to continue at a seconds notice. Kyla's green eyes met her enemies untroubled brown ones. An inkling of fear crept into her heart as she considered she may have bitten off more than she could chew, but there was no backing down now.

 

Ditching her previous tactic she lunged forward again, feigning to her right before, quick as an arrow, she aimed a blow to his right thigh. The foreigner lost the advantage of his longer reach when she was willing to get so close and her blade successfully connected with his flesh before she danced away again out of reach and circling to his right. No noise had escaped the Roman, if that was what he was, when her blade had bit into his flesh but she could see him reassessing her, as if only seeing her truly for the first time. He let out a short 'Hmm' and minutely changed his stance, sword held ready again for her next assault. His brown eyes held a slight sparkle that had previously been absent.

 

Kyla suddenly realised as she strove forward again that she had just lost the advantage of her enemy underestimating her, namely, because of her sex. He was sparring with her, anticipating all of her moves a split second before she made them, each of his in return economical, not one wasting an ounce of energy, and when they parted it was Kyla who's blood had been let. She gritted her teeth as she took in the large wound he had opened on her left upper arm. She glared across at her enemy as she breathed raggedly. She wondered how much fight she had left in her, no doubt that he was wondering the same thing. He was stronger than her and he matched her in speed and agility.  
Knowing she was outmatched but, desperately thinking of Calum, she lunged again. Every second she distracted the Roman was another second she had bought Calum. Their blades connected, both moving with speed and grace, alternatively attacking and blocking with grunts of exertion from both sides before the foes parted again. Not hesitating this time Kyla threw herself into the fray once more, but after some quick sparring it was the Roman who successfully made contact. Kyla couldn't help crying out as his blade sliced across her abdomen as, too slow, she pulled her body away to avoid the blow. She retreated again and he did not the press the advantage. 

 

He watched her as she pressed her left forearm against her damaged stomach. Kyla judged that it didn't go deep, but it still hurt. With a small roar she went for him again, her pain fuelling her attack and he retreated before her, though successfully blocking her increasingly desperate slashes. In one second the momentum of the battle changed and Kyla was on the defence again. He pressed her harder than before and she struggled to keep one step ahead. Seeing an opening she flowed forward, drawing her dagger in a back slash and triumphantly connecting with his right arm, albeit it shallowly. Her glory was snatched away in the blink of an eye. They both froze, her letting her dagger dangle uselessly at her side, him with his curved blade poised at her throat.  
Kyla's stomach did a flip as her eyes glazed over in defeat and she gazed off into nothingness.

 

'Don't you dare come out.' she called loudly, quickly, her voice strong and clear, hoping Calum heeded her words, predicting he was not far away. 

'The village must know. The village is the most important. Warn them. Wait five hundred heartbeats after he is gone and warn them. May the Gods give your feet wings little brother.' She prayed he would not appear. Her gaze slid to meet the cold brown eyes of her enemy as she loosened her hold on her hunting blade, letting it fall with a muffled thud to the forest floor. His eyes were unfathomable as she inclined her head the smallest amount, drawing in breathes quickly through her nose, her chest still heaving. 'Make it quick' she thought to him, then closed her eyes to await the fatal blow.


	2. Chapter 2

Tristan listened as the 'wild' woman called out in a clear, strong voice, as if addressing the forest around her, her eyes unseeing. There was a handful of people at the Wall who understood the language of the Picts but Tristan certainly was not one of them. In his line of duty there was no need for conversations with the natives who lived to the North. Was she praying to her Gods one last time before she died, he wondered? Was she communicating with another Woad? It was not a stretch to think there could be others near by, but if so why hadn't they come to her assistance by now? Surely they would not let her die alone. He knew enough about this enemy of the Roman empire to know they were fiercely loyal to each other. Rome's enemies, he thought bitterly, not his, and soon he would no longer be Rome's indebted killer. 

 

The Woad must have made her peace because her fiery green eyes focused on him once more. She intrigued him more than he let on. Tristan was ever a master at controlling his features, never betraying the thoughts and emotions vying underneath. He had heard her approach before she had spotted him, but only moments before. He had stood there, motionless, waiting for an indication of who was behind him and what they intended to do, listening for the tell tale stretch of a bowstring. He had been back-tracking small, fresh footprints which he had concluded belonged to a woman or adolescent, so when he heard the advance he wasn't taken aback to see the female. He turned to meet her, sword drawn. She had uttered no sound when she charged at him which he, subconsciously, approved of. Many of his brothers where unnecessarily vocal when engaging in combat and it was one of the myriad of small differences that set him apart from his brethren. He had countered her first move easily, seeing the jarring effect it had on her, but she was nimble and danced away from him immediately. 

 

What sort of demon had possessed her to attack him with such a small blade, he wondered. She stood, exposing a target of tender flesh on her left side just out of reach, waiting for his move. Tristan knew a trap when he saw one and held his position, forcing her to abandon her tactic and attack again. She was quick as a cat and surprised him, feigning to one side before getting passed his reach and landing a blow to his right thigh. They parted again. Tristan had received much worse in the past, but it had been a long time since someone, anyone, had even drawn his blood. He knew that Woad women where just as likely to pick up a blade as their men but this was his first time to encounter one in a fight. She was charged with barely restrained energy, hair untamed and eyes flashing brightly. He had underestimated her, but not any more. 'Hmm' Tristan took the measure of her and readjusted his stance slightly. 

 

She fought bravely, with fire in her belly, he couldn't deny it, but he was stronger, more experienced, and ultimately the better of the two. He landed a blow across her stomach that would have been fatal if she had been one second slower in trying to avoid it, yet she fought on. He set her up, much the same as she had tried to do earlier, giving her an opening to lunge for thus exposing her throat . He had not expected her to have made contact and he gave this due credit, but it mattered little when his blade was sitting at her exposed jugular.   
And here she was now, calmly accepting her own demise, nodding her head curtly in recognition of this defeat and then closing those green eyes, thinking never to open them again.  
He should honour her by killing her swiftly, his blade was sharp and he was strong enough to take her head with one blow. And yet Tristan hesitated. Something, some feeling he didn't fully comprehend, stayed his hand. He couldn't explain it, but he knew that he wanted to see those eyes again. 

'So what then', his thoughts came fast and quick, 'let her go?'  
Her injuries were not necessarily fatal but Tristan didn't yet know where her settlement was. If it was far, she might collapse of blood loss before she got there, if it was near he would have more than one, lone Pictish woman to deal with very soon. His scouting mission had lead him in a direction further into the woods than he'd previously ventured. There had been an increase in attacks by gangs of young, male Woads against Roman patrols near this section of the Wall and Arthur had asked him to investigate. Before now he had not come across much evidence of a settlement in this area of the forest but clearly he was heading in the right direction. If she was free to return to her people the Woads would know to be vigilant, making further scouting missions more treacherous, nigh impossible. Not thinking too far ahead at the consequences, Tristan quickly drew his sword back and, using the base of the grip, swiftly brought it down with a crack on her temple. Kyla immediately dropped unconscious to the leaf strewn floor. 

 

Tristan sheathed his sword and expelled a rush of air through his nose. 'What now?' he wondered as he stood over her. Pushing any discomfort his own injuries may be causing him to the back of his mind, he reached down to lift up the prone woman. He grunted slightly as he adjusted his grip on her, then started to make his way back to Saratos, his grey destrier. He didn't have far to go before being greeted by a low whinny from his mount. Saratos tossed his head and shook out his mane, clearly restless and ready to be untied and loose to move again. 

'Hmm, not yet boy' Tristan said gruffly as he set Kyla gently back onto the ground at the horses feet.  
Most herbivores would shy at the smell of blood but Saratos was raised for battle and conditioned to resist his natural urge to flee. Taking an interest in the new addition he bent his head low and snorted at Kyla's hair. Tristan absently scratched the beast behind the ears as he knelt over her and studied the damage he had inflicted. Her left upper arm had the deepest wound, bleeding freely down her arm, mixing with the sweat she had worked up during the fight, but he concluded that there was not much muscle damage. He peeled back the slashed pieces of her woven tunic, now stained crimson, examining the injury on her abdomen that he found beneath, confirming it was more superficial. He rose swiftly and rummaged in the saddle bag, extracting a small bundle of material. 

 

Kneeling once more, he unfolded the package to reveal several tightly wound strips of cloth cushioning a small earthenware pot sealed with wax around the stopper. Jols was much more than a valet to all of the knights. He was an integral part of their unusual family and had a gift for anticipating their needs. Secreted away in the bottom of all of the knights saddlebags was just such a package, containing a viscous healing salve and bandaging in case any of them took wounds while away from the Wall. Tristan scratched at the seal with his thumb nail and un-stoppered the ointment. He briefly examined his hands, caked in dirt, and decidedly reached for a nearby leaf and proceeded to use it to spread the salve in and around her injuries. He quickly secured a bandage around her arm but it took some manoeuvring to dress her stomach, having to raise her waist slightly to reach behind her back. 

Satisfied he had done all he could for the time, he paused and gently brushed her dark curling hair away from her forehead revealing the already blossoming bruise underneath. She'd have a bump that even Bors would be proud of, but she'd survive. He took a moment to drink in her features while she was not attempting to open his throat. Her cheekbones where defined and her jawline sharp. Her eyebrows were narrow and highly arched, heavy lashes lay on the dark rings under her eyes. Her nose was small and her lips full, and though he couldn't see them now, he knew her eyes were the palest shade of green. 

 

Tristan frowned as he looked at her. He was an efficient killer. Some of his brothers even suspected he took a little too much pleasure from killing and they weren't far wrong. He was good at it, more than good. This was partially down to endless hours of training and partially through natural talent. He only felt truly in control of his own fate when he was pitted against another in battle, and to Tristan, a man in servitude, it was his life's blood. He enjoyed the company of his brother knights, but contributed little to their general banter, preferring his position as spectator. He enjoyed the company of his animals more, and his own company most of all. Of women he'd had his fair share, but none had kept his interest for longer than a night or two. So when it come to it, Tristan had no qualms in killing any living creature, and was disinclined to have his head turned by a pretty face and yet he had somehow found himself in his current situation. He absentmindedly rested his hand on the handle of his sword as he again considered killing her.

 

'So what now?', Tristan thought again. Her wounds were bandaged, he could leave her be to make her way home when she came to, or for her people to eventually come across her. They would then know from her tale that the Romans were sending scouts to this area. If he killed her they'd surmise the same, perhaps launch more attacks near the Wall in retaliation. If he took her, what then? They might assume she had come across her demise at the end of a Roman sword but without a body to tell the tale of her death they couldn't be sure. Tristan liked things simple and this situation he was creating seemed more and more complicated by the minute.

Having decided on a course of action, Tristan took a dagger from his belt. He reached down to the unmoving woman, still wondering if he'd made the right choice, and cut loose the two rabbits she had tied around her hips. At least he would eat well tonight he thought. Rising, he attached them to his saddle and, whilst there, removed a length of hempen rope from his second saddlebag. Holding Kyla's wrists together he bound them tightly, looping a length around her waist to restrict her reach. He attached the loose end to his saddle. In a tug o' war he knew that Saratos would always win. 

 

Tristan reached for his water skin and took a long draught from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment to absorb the stillness of the forest. There was still good light, leaving him hours to make his way back to the Wall. He looked down at Kyla again. If it had been in his nature to outwardly show emotion it would have materialized in a sigh. Silently he angled his water skin, holding it above her head, allowing a trickle to fall on to her face. Receiving no response he repeated the action, letting a stronger flow of water splash onto the woman. He was rewarded for his efforts when a pair of startling green eyes shot open in confusion, accompanied by a sharp intake of air. Tristan braced himself for the Woad's next move.


	3. Chapter 3

Kyla opened her eyes and dragged a lung full of air into her chest before expelling it again quickly. She was vaguely aware of something external having woken her up and momentarily watched the branches of the trees above her, swaying slightly to the backdrop of a clear blue sky, with some confusion. Her eyes darted around the sunlit leaves as if searching for an answer to a question she did not yet know. She closed her eyes again and took some deep breaths, struggling to gather her thoughts. Her features gradually contorted into a grimace as the almighty pain in her head made its presence known, tearing a small groan from her lips. Kyla instinctively went to raise her hand to her forehead, discovering in the process that she was unable to do so. She raised her head sharply to survey her hands but immediately drop it back to the forest floor with a gasp as the pain in her head increased tenfold with the sudden movement. 

 

Kyla rolled onto her side, her body curling around itself as she scrunched her eyes shut tightly, waiting for the ache to subside, unable to stop the small whimpers that escaped her. She hesitantly opened, first one, then both eyes as she took in the bindings around her wrists, automatically testing them while her mind started to rapidly piece together the events leading up to this moment. Heart picking up pace, Kyla rolled once more, getting a face full of dirt as she used her head and shoulder to push herself into a kneeling position, slowly fighting to raise her head without causing another shot of searing pain. Her mind was alerting her to several concerns simultaneously, the pounding in her head, the bindings that restrained her, the abdominal pain currently causing her discomfort in her hunched position along with the stinging ache in her left arm. Finally able to look about her through a curtain of her dishevelled, partially wet hair, Kyla located the source of her problems.

 

The Roman was standing about three meters away next to his horse, watching her, his right hand clasping his left wrist in a non threatening manner. He was composed of that same stillness displayed earlier, no indication of whether he would move or not. Though clearly a danger, he didn't seem inclined to attack her just now. At any rate, she thought, if he had wanted her dead he'd already passed up the perfect opportunity. Kyla's mind raced to a dark place but she refused to dwell on what possible purpose he had kept her alive for, instead she examined the rope around her wrists while acutely aware of the man silently watching. She tested them thoroughly, confirming how frustratingly well she'd been bound. At the very least it looked as though Calum was not sharing her fate, she thought and hoped he was well on his way back towards the village by now.

 

Kyla gathered her legs under her and rose shakily to her feet, feeling minutely more in control with that one action. Her eyes followed the trail of rope leading back to where it was fastened to the horse's saddle, knowing better than to pit her strength against the great beast currently tossing it's head impatiently. One fight against the odds was quite enough for one day, she thought bitterly. 

She sized up her enemy, satisfied that she hadn't imagined that she'd hurt him in some way, noting that the two wounds she had caused were, as of yet, untreated, though clearly not damaging enough to require immediate attention. Kyla's gaze dropped momentarily, registering properly the dressings of her own afflictions, before raising her eyes suspiciously to the man once again. She internally shuddered at the thought of a Roman laying his hands on her. He must have carried her the short distance to where his horse was tethered and tended her wounds here, she assumed. That darker part of her mind immediately tried to supply different scenarios of where else upon her body his hands may have strayed while she lay unconscious but Kyla quickly quashed such thoughts, relegating them to a far corner of her mind to worry about at a more appropriate time. There was nothing to do now but get through the next few moments.

The Roman tilted his head ever so slightly to one side, a minuscule motion but one that made Kyla suddenly very aware of being appraised. Her chin rose defiantly in return, straightening her posture while outwardly ignoring her aches and pains as best she could, as she waited for some indication of what he would do next. Kyla turned his assessing look back on to him, refusing to acknowledge how unsettling it was. He certainly was an unusual Roman. Several things marked his as being different, the thick beard, the partially braided hair that fell unheeded over one eye, the high cheekbones and the unusual markings gracing them, as well as his general attire. All Kyla knew was the he wasn't one of her people and that, above all others, marked him as an enemy. Why have you kept me alive, she wondered, silently willing him to answer her unasked question. 

The piercing cry of a hawk cut through the woodlands from high above, drawing the Romans eyes briefly skywards before seemingly galvanising him into action. He quickly turned and mounted his horse without any signs of being hindered by his wounds, she noted dismally. The beast danced around while adjusting to the weight of his rider once more, tautening the rope between it and Kyla in the process, catching her momentarily off balance. Righting her footing once more her eyes rose to meet those of the Romans, reading clearly the unspoken message on his face: keep up or be dragged behind. Without a moments hesitation he directed the stallion further down the trail, leaving Kyla no choice but to follow suit, balefully glancing behind her in the direction she hoped Calum had gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Tristan had kept Saratos moving at a steady pace for some miles now, picking their way through the darkening woods in the general direction of the Wall. Once they had broken through the boundaries of the trees he would make for Badon Hill, girl in tow, though what he would do when he got there currently mystified him. 

 

It had been apparent that the girl in question was experiencing a degree of pain when she had come to, but there was nothing he could do about that that he hadn't already done. He imagined she was in the throes of a splitting headache judging by her grimace, and it gave him little pleasure. Tristan, careful not to move and cause more alarm, observed as she had gotten to her feet, albeit unsteadily, her eyes following the rope to where it was attached to Saratos, glancing at her bandaged wounds, mind clearly ticking over the implications, before meeting his gaze defiantly giving him a taste of those angry greens again. 

 

He wondered at her outwardly calm acceptance of her situation, much as she had displayed earlier at the receiving end of his sword, and found that it was eliciting some small admiration. He felt the weight of her judgement as she clearly sized him up, her flitting expressions betraying the fact her mind was working furiously. He would have expected retaliation from most people in her situation, but it didn't come.   
He was wondering if all Woad women would have acted the same way, before Tamura's impatient call from the skies above had returned his attention to the matter at hand. No time for pondering. His priority now was to get them out of the general area as quickly as possible. 

 

Tristan had been quietly relieved, yet somehow unsurprised, when the woman had followed behind without conflict, not that the alternative he had implied to her was an attractive one. He had given some thought as to whether this was an indication that she had the foresight to know when to choose her battles, but this conflicted with her attacking him in the first place and left him continuing to puzzle her out.

 

'Why had the damned woman attacked me any way?' he found himself thinking. If you come across something dangerous in the woods, a lone wolf, an enemy, you give it a wide berth, perhaps wait a moment to see if it poses a threat before you rush head long at it with an inferior hunting knife.   
This train of thought led him to considered whether he would have just let her retreat once he'd become aware of her, and he easily concluded that the answer was probably 'no'. Allowing a Woad, who had witnessed him trespassing on their territory, to live and tell the tale would not have occurred to him...until now. He was too vulnerable alone to risk his enemies becoming aware of his presence. His ability to stay hidden, to observe from the shadows, to quietly dispose of those who crossed his path was what made him such a successful scout. So while he had not killed the woman, he could not have allowed her that opportunity to 'tell the tale'. And exactly why he had not just disposed of her wrestled uneasily in his mind.   
'Perhaps I'm just getting tired of killing' he scoffed with amusement, bringing the smallest hint of a smile to play on his lips, 'I could join Galahad in his never ending wheel of shame and denial'

 

He glanced back at the girl surreptitiously, something he'd thus far avoided, as he heard her stumble once more, briefly feeling a tug on the saddle as she struggled to stay upright, avoiding being dragged unceremoniously across the ground. Once steadied, she took some extra quick steps to slacken the rope between her and the horse once more, eyes trained on the placement of her feet. His focus returned forward but not before he had registered how pale she was beginning to look and how her movements had become sluggish, evidence of her depleting energy. At the beginning of their journey he had heard her occasionally struggle with the uneven terrain but it was apparent by the increased frequency of these incidents that she was finding the going much more difficult now. 

 

'And if she does, what is it to me?' he sneered internally He had no duty of care to her, she was a bloody Woad for crying out loud. He'd no problem dragging her body forcibly behind him if she had refused to cooperate, but he paused as he considered that she may be unable to do so.

 

Tristan assessed the cloudless sky, illuminated with the subdued colours of twilight, registering the faint appearance of two stars. It was noticeably darker under the canopy of branches and the evening chorus of songbirds had begun to permeate the air. Another fifteen minutes or so and he judged they would be breaking the cover of the trees, but it would be long dark before they reached Badon Hill at this pace and he very much doubted the girl had much left in her to continue that far. 

 

Tristan reined Saratos in decidedly when he spotted a fallen tree to one side of their path, giving the beast a solid pat on it's powerful neck in the process. Dismounting quickly, only mildly discomfited by his injured right thigh, he passed the reins over the horse's head and lead him to stand by it. Dropping the reins momentarily, confident in Saratos's training that he wouldn't stray, Tristan proceeded to shorten first one, then the other stirrup whilst ignoring the uneasy looking girl who was keeping as much distance as the length of the rope would allow between them. 

 

Once he had the saddle adjusted Tristan turned to the wary girl, his left shoulder settling under the horses neck, his arm circling underneath to reassuringly stroke the obedient animal, murmuring to him quietly in his mother tongue. Though she had followed behind without upset, he doubted that the fight had gone out of her and was certain she was just biding her time, making him conscious of not giving her any opportunity. She was clearly exhausted yet her muscles trembled in anticipation of action and her eyes were bright, alert. No, she was not defeated yet. With a short jerk of his head, and gleam in his eye, he gestured to the woman to come closer.


	5. Chapter 5

Though the horse moved at a steady walk Kyla had to quicken her normal pace to keep up with it's much longer stride. She very quickly discovered that having her arms restricted compromised her balance and found the terrain she usually had no trouble traversing becoming problematic. Every root and protruding branch seemed almost sentiently trying to impede her. It took a couple of miles for Kyla to become accustomed to the pain in her head that was rhythmically thumping with every step she took, reverberating from the soles of her feet to rattle in her brain. She was well used to ranging over many miles but never before when she had been carrying injuries and she was beginning to find it hard to ignore the gnawing hunger pains adding to her discomfort. She balefully eyed the two fat rabbits swaying temptingly from the horses saddle. 

 

Kyla's eyes slid from the rabbits to her captor and she passed some comparatively pleasurable time thinking of increasingly creative ways to kill him. The Roman had not deigned to look back at her once, nor slacken the steady pace. She had exhausted ideas for ways ways to escape and was finding her capacity for thinking of anything other than the placement of her feet was diminishing.

 

In an attempt to create some order in her troubled mind Kyla took stock of her situation. First and foremost, she was alive. That in itself was surprising, but for how much longer or for what purpose she couldn't tell. Considering it dismaying to dwell on this too long, Kyla's thoughts moved swiftly on. What next? She was injured. Injured, but not fatally so. Though the bandages were saturated in her blood they had achieved their goal of stemming the flow, despite the fact she had been exerting herself since receiving them. Then there was the bindings. She was twice bound, by her wrists and to the damned beast who's rear she could happily do without seeing ever again in her lifetime...however long that may be. But her legs, they were free, free to carry her away if they were given half a chance, and she would take whatever chances came her way. The thing Kyla found hardest to ignore, and possibly most worrying, was her hunger. She had broken her fast that morning on flat bread and a handful of tart, dark berries that were unseasonably early this year. That was at daybreak and her stomach acknowledged this by rumbling it's dissent. She felt hollow and drained and began worrying about the inevitable tumble that would see her dragged across the rough forest trail. Thirst came a close second in her growing list of woe, though relatively speaking it had not been so long since she's slaked her thirst with Callum before parting ways, leaving the cumbersome water skin with the him.

 

“No”, Kyla reprimanded herself, “do not dwell on the boy, he is safe, he is safe, he is safe.” This became her mantra for some moments, distracting her enough to misplace her footing and stumble forward once more.

 

Kyla's stomach dropped as she experienced a moment of free-fall, her head suddenly clear and alert as she managed to get her right foot out quickly enough to catch herself from colliding with the ground. She faltered briefly, regaining her balance, not helped by the sudden jerk forward she was subjected to by the rope which now strained between her and the horse. She wearily jogged forward, creating slack on the tether once more. Shocked into alertness once more Kyla's eyes kept to the ground in anticipation of more obstacles, wishing she had kept her hair bound as it swung annoyingly around her face. For this reason it took her weary brain longer than normal to perceive the horse drifting off to one side of the trail and suddenly halting. If not for a quick glance forward she may have walked right into it's rump.

 

Kyla's heart rate picked up once more and she subconsciously began taking steps backwards, until the rope impeded her retreat. She watched the Roman dismount. He still did not seem physically bothered by the trivial wounds she had inflicted on him and, considering she had been exerting herself for hours whilst he had been astride a horse, she was very much aware of her odds if they came to blows once again, to say nothing of her lack of weapons and freedom of movement. 

 

Kyla assumed he had lead the horse to the fallen tree so that he could secure it there and was thus surprised when he dropped the reins completely and began to attend to the saddle. She had presumed that he meant to take her to the Wall since they had been moving steadily in a south-easterly direction so her thoughts were in turmoil once more about what he intended to do with, or to, her by this turn of events. Surely if he had meant to kill her he would have done so before now, he had ample opportunity. She had previously supposed the same about any more nefarious actions he had planned for her, until now. Why bring her all this way? Why wait so long? Did he mean to exhaust her first with this condemned march? Well more fool him if he thought she would engage willingly or not put up a fight. Kyla's hands wrapped satisfyingly around the end of the rope closest to her bound wrists, alternatively unclenching and clenching it tightly in an effort to avoid cutting the palms of her hands with her nails.

 

Apparently finished with his ministrations to the saddle, the Roman settled himself by the horse's shoulder, speaking quietly to the animal whilst watching her. The few words that floated to Kyla on the breeze were unfamiliar, certainly not Latin. And there they stood, watching each other, him with the smallest hint of amusement, her with blatant animosity. The Roman gave a short jerk of his head, indicating her to come closer. Kyla didn't move, other than furrowing her brows slightly with the incredulous look on her face. Was this man serious? He thought she would willingly come to him? Perhaps when trees bloom in Autumn she would!

 

After some more moments of unrelenting eye contact, the Roman took a step to the side of the horse and, with a small sweep of his hand, he indicated the saddle, his head inclined slightly in invitation. Kyla, disbelieving his gall, remained unmoving. Did he take her for a halfwit? She watched as his glance briefly strayed to the rope separating them. 

 

'Yes, you son of a dog', Kyla thought bitterly, ' that's the only way you're getting me near you.'

 

Unexpectedly, the Roman began to slowly back away from the horse, further down the trail, the only time his eyes left hers where when he briefly held his hand up in front of his mount's head in what appeared to be a command to stay. The horse's ears flicked forwards and backwards a couple of times before shifting the weight of his hindquarters onto one back leg and settling. About two meters away the Roman stopped, daring the girl to accept the invitation.

 

Kyla was feeling tempted. He hardly wanted her to mount the horse so he could let her go, she concluded that he intended to lead her somewhere. Kyla found it hard to believe that a stinking Roman would be capable of compassionately seeking to ease the strain she was finding her body in. Was he just tricking her into getting within reach without the hassle of dragging her to him? Then again, if she managed to get on the horse it could be her one chance to get away. No, he was still close enough to grab her. Kyla eyed the animal longingly for a heartbeat before resolutely staring the Roman down again. 

 

The Roman's only reaction was to back away further down the trail. Kyla had to lean slightly to one side to keep the horse from obstructing her view of the man, not wanting to take her sight off of him, but she couldn't help it if her treacherous eyes strayed once more to the beast. Once an implement of her detention it was beginning to take the form of her route to freedom. Was the Roman daft to give her this chance? Still mistrusting the motives behind the situation she found herself in, Kyla took one hesitant step forward, ready to back away if the man moved an inch. Kyla waited, her entire body tense, still clutching the rope in her hands. The Roman didn't move. She took another wary step forward, but he stayed put. 

 

At this point, as she found her feet moving irresistibly towards the fallen tree, noting that the Roman would have to clear it before getting to her, thus affording her some time to retreat, it occurred to Kyla that she couldn't ride a horse. Not that that would stop her from attempting it.

 

Being surrounded by woodland it was unnecessary for her village to keep horses, they kept very little livestock at all. They relied on the river that cut a path through the forest to transport themselves and their goods to other villages and mainly sourced their fresh meat through hunting. Of course, they had hosted many travellers and traders over the years so the equine beasts were not entirely unfamiliar. It was on one such occasion that Kyla had her single experience of being riding horse, if it could be called that. The son of a visiting trader had taken a shine to Kyla and her vagabond group of friends, letting each have a turn on his shaggy mountain pony. The saddle had no stirrups to speak of, just four protruding horns, two on either side, that your legs rested in between. It had been a source of pride that Kyla had managed to stay on a little longer than most of her friends before being abruptly unseated by the ponies skittish antics. There had been many a bruised tailbone that day, it had not helped to endear the creatures to Kyla.

 

Kyla's eyes darted between the man, who remained motionless though diligent, and the animal she was approaching. This was no mountain pony, no, this was a very intimidating, very large beast bred for the battlefield, though it seemed to currently be adopting the mannerism of it's master, remaining still other than the occasional swish of it's tail to dislodge the array of flying insects that were feasting upon it.

 

Reaching the tree Kyla raised the rope over the tangle of roots still partially attached to the ground. After a moments hesitation she swung one leg over the horizontal trunk. She waited a few heartbeats as she watched her captor, making sure he was not about to act, before using her other leg to propel herself into a straddling position on the tree, desperately wishing her hands were free. Gathering first one, then the other leg under her, Kyla began to rise. 

 

She panicked briefly as she lost her balance, almost pitching forward with no way to break her fall before rocking back on to her heels and regaining stability. She snapped her head around to look at the Roman in panic, having taken her eyes off of him, but he remained where he was standing, silent with no way to read into his expression. Kyla took some calming breathes before rising fully. Each step she took towards the animal was punctuated by reassuring glances at the unmoving Roman. 

 

Kyla could feel the rising euphoria in the pit of her stomach as she reached the horse. She noted that this saddle was different to the trader's son's, it had a metal ring to rest your foot in. With no comfortable way to steady it with her hands Kyla resorted to inching her toe into the left stirrup whilst balancing on her right leg. She could feel the urgency and panic bubbling up in her as she struggled to get a decent footing in the hold, expecting the Roman to finally close his trap on her or the horse to move off at any moment. Triumphantly, Kyla felt her foot slide into place. She hopped slightly on her right leg before leaning her weight into the stirrup and throwing her other leg over the saddle. Her right foot found the second stirrup without difficulty. 

 

Kyla sat there, breathing heavily, stunned. The horse had stood there patiently as she had scrambled on top of him and it now allowed her to tangle her fingers into it's long grey mane. She met the unwavering eyes of the Roman who continued to watch her from a distance, as yet, motionless. Kyla couldn't fathom his actions but she refused to dwell on it whilst her freedom was within her grasp. Clinging on to the horse's mane, feeling a surge of energy she raised both feet and brought her heels down sharply into it's side, giving out a guttural cry of encouragement to the animal. Kyla allowed herself the smallest of smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

Saratos jumped to action as the Woad girl dug her heels into his ribcage, nearly unseating her in the process as she visibly tightened her grip on his mane. The barely contained delight that lit up her face was observed from a few meters away.

 

Tristan didn't toy with his opponents, as a cat would torment a shrew before ending it's life. He was not one for grandstanding and posturing. In a fight his strikes were precise and swift as he granted death with little fuss. It sat unwell with him to have resorted to trickery but it had appeared to be the easiest way to get her to mount Saratos without conflict. The girl was hurt, exhausted and in no position to put up a fight but he was sure that wouldn't have stopped her trying. His mood soured, if it was possible, as Saratos proceeded to stop dead, dropping his chin to his chest, very nearly throwing the girl in the process. The abrupt alteration caused her to call out in alarm, before Saratos began to take awkward steps backwards with her draped momentarily over his neck as he return to his position by the fallen tree, bobbing his head disobediently. 

 

The girl, righting herself, with a look of desperation falling across her features, tried once more to encourage the conniving steed into action. Her desires, though clearly translated to the animal through her furiously kicking legs, where denied outright as Saratos refused to advance even one step.

 

Tristan was not particularly emphatic, but watching the realisation of what had transpired dawn on the girl gave him no satisfaction. It was evident in the sudden cessation of her frantic movements followed quickly by the slump in her posture. The girl relinquished her hold on the horses mane, her hands lying limp in her lap, her eyes unfocused on any one point, her face appeared on the verge of crumbling. She turned her head away from Tristan, as if attempting to hid her vulnerability from him, but it was short moments again before she pulled her shoulders back once more, straightened her head and raised her chin decidedly. Her expression was grim but, though she refused to make eye contact with him, Tristan could see the spark had not diminished in her eyes which he found somewhat comforting. Strange girl. He was coming to the conclusion that any preconceived notions he had about how a woman would react in any given situation would rarely apply to her. Perhaps he was just giving women in general very little credit.

 

Before he examined his own psyche too profoundly, and the girl had a chance to rethink her compliance, Tristan gave a low melodic whistle to which Saratos responded to immediately. Trying to remain unfazed at the sudden momentum, the Woad quickly grabbed on to the horse's mane once more as he made his way spritely to his master. She continued to avoid his gaze once Saratos had reached him, choosing instead to stare directly ahead of them down the path. Tristan quickly removed his sheathed dao sword from his hip to rest at his back, where it usually resided. He gathered up the reins still dangling feely from the horse's bridle, taking the opportunity to examine the Woad briefly while he had her in such close proximity before turning and starting down the trail at a quick jog, guiding Saratos.

 

He was confident he'd made the right choice once he'd had a closer look at her, the girl was spent. Though he had no notion what would pass as her usual complexion, she appeared drawn and pale to him, if quite cross as Saratos's sudden obedience. Tristan himself was feeling none the worse for the wounds she had inflicted on him, though even if he had been he'd probably be ignoring it as best he could. Peripherally Tristan could see that, though she didn't keep her seat well, the girl was managing to stay in the saddle as Saratos trotted behind him with his bouncing gait. He hoped they would reach Badon Hill twice as quickly this way.

 

They reached the perimeter of the forest as the brightest stars presented themselves for the night, the sky a deep azure blue. The Wall was visible in all it's serpentine glory when they crested a hill not far from the wooded boundary. The sight was one that Tristan was familiar with and gave him no reason to pause, yet his sharp hearing picked up the sudden intake of breath from behind him. He supposed that it was an impressive sight if one had not seen it a hundred times before, returning raggedly from another long scouting mission. The Wall itself stood some ten foot high and spanned eighty miles, reaching across the land from coast to coast, though Tristan was only familiar with roughly the fifteen miles either direction from Badon Hill. From the high vantage point he could just make out the larger settlement in the distance by the more vast source of light it cast, as of yet some miles away. Other than the further larger settlements, dotted every mile along the wall was a small fort with a large enough opening for a small cart to pass through, with up to fifty Roman auxiliary soldiers stationed at each. They could be seen patrolling along the top of the Wall by the light of the flaming torches burning every fifty yards. The lights made it easy to follow the line of the wall far to the East and West and, in times of need, larger beacons were set alight to alert the other garrisons. 

 

Tristan, keeping up his wolfish lope, made his way downhill to the nearest small fort, covering the half mile of open land quickly, wishing to cross the immense barricade as soon as possible. He found the general population of the Roman army were suspicious of the infamous Sarmatian knights and primarily treated them with, if not respect, a degree of caution. Tristan in particular seemed to instill in men a level of unease that left them absently resting their hands on their weapons. 

 

About one hundred meters away from the Wall, Tristan slowed his pace to a walk, Saratos reacting in kind at his heels. He glanced at the girl, looking for signs she had any intentions other than staying atop his horse, but noted only that she she looked in awe of the approaching structure. He did not want to startle the men on sentry by rushing the gate but was disgusted that they was a mere ten feet away from the entrance before anyone had even noticed them. He would need to remember to mention it to Arthur when he made his report. 

 

“HALT! And where d'you an' the missus think you're going to at this time o' night? Make yourself known!” came a gruff voice from above the Wall, the visage of a portly, armour clad sentinel peaking over the ramparts. 

 

Tristan's cool stare would have translated into 'looking daggers' on any other man. He and his brothers in arms still dressed in the traditional garb and manner they had adopted before reaching Briton and it immediately marked them as different, but he would have thought that after almost fifteen years in this Gods forsaken country that the other unfortunate souls stationed here would have the sense to recognise a fellow Roman 'recruit' when they saw one.

 

Tristan realised that he must have become accustomed to the soldiers at Badon Hill being overly accommodating to him and his fellows, he was unused to being refused immediate entry through the partition.

 

“You deaf? I said declare yourse...ooph” the portly man's head disappeared sharply from view as his sentence was cut abruptly short. Tristan resisted the smirk that longed to play on his lips as the sounds of a ferocious, hushed discussion could be heard from where he stood at ground level.

 

A different, older face appeared above them.  
“You can pass through, Scout” he called, nodding minutely. Tristan returned the gesture and waited to be admitted. With a degree of creaking and groaning the heavy doors opened to reveal the tunnel-like gap through the wall. Giving Saratos a solid pat on his neck, an opportunity to surreptitiously look at the girl's reaction, he moved the trio forward. The fear was evident on her face, still tired looking, but alert. He could see the white knuckled grip she kept were her fingers tangled with the horses hair. He needn't worry about her running at the moment, it seemed she was frozen in place.

 

The Wall was roughly three meters thick, leaving plenty of room for a murder hole to be situated in the ceiling of the passageway that they passed under. If the wall was breached in times of conflict, boiling oil, or any other missiles to hand, could be deposited on the unwary trespasser.  
Tristan gave it none of his attention, his eyes were fixed on the Centurion who had just descended from the ramparts and now stood directly in their path.

 

“Well met, Scout. You are, of course, free to continue” said the same distinguished older man that had granted them passage from above.

He looked to be in his late forties, hair greying at the temples, his body only just going to seed yet he still looked like he'd give a lot of the younger men in his charge a run for their money. Tristan was inclined to like him.

 

“That savage behind you, however, is another story”

 

Or perhaps not.


	7. Chapter 7

“That savage behind you, however, is another story.”

 

Kyla's grasp of spoken, if not written, Latin was sufficient to follow the scene unfolding before her. She thought her heart couldn't race any faster, until she had heard the elder Roman's statement. He had an air of authority about him that implied his word was law, at least here.

 

It was becoming more common amongst the Pictish tribes, especially the younger generations and those situated closer to the Wall, to posses a working knowledge of their enemy's language. Many in the higher council of Elders condemned the practise, but others, like Merlin and his kin, encouraged it, seeing the advantage one had in understanding ones foe. The respected village herb woman Torra, older by far than most people Kyla knew, held great stock in Merlin's wisdom and educated those willing to learn the foreign tongue. 

 

Kyla was relieved now that she had taken the time to pick up the basics. Ignorance may have been bliss, but it was not in her nature to be kept in the dark. The wandering, hostile eyes of the other soldiers edging closer to the horse beneath her had been enough to set her frayed senses into overdrive, trying and failing to keep them all in her sights. The confirmation that she would not be allowed to continue left her in no doubt that being escorted safely through the Wall once more was also not their intention. 

 

Though the Wall had partially terrified Kyla with it's immense size, it had primarily provoked a sense of awe in the girl, causing her breath to hitch slightly upon laying her eyes on it, briefly forgetting the predicament she found herself in and her wounded pride. She could barely comprehend a structure so gargantuan or the time and effort that had gone into constructing it. As the Roman had lead them down the hill she noted grimly that she would have to apologise to Taran and Drest, if she ever returned home, for scoffing their account of seeing the damned thing. She had done so with great aplomb, going so far as to suggest they should be wary of the twenty foot tall Romans soldiers who must have constructed such a colossal fortification. These musings ceased quickly with every step they took closer to the structure which found Kyla unintentionally freezing up, all thoughts of escape eluding her. 

 

Currently her body was tired and abused yet she could still feel the adrenalin circulating through her and she was certain her limbs would obey her command, stiff as they were from riding. Kyla loosened her death grip on the horse's mane, ignoring the slight shake in her bound wrists, she prepared herself to go down fighting. Her eyes sought out the more familiar figure of the Roman who had lead her to this pit, trussed up like a pig for slaughter.

 

It appeared that this was not his intended destination, which was some small comfort, though where he had planned to lead her may have been no better. Kyla easily picked up the the fact that she didn't seem to be the only one on the receiving end of the soldiers animosity. A subconscious part of Kyla's mind once more detailed the man's appearance, clothing and hair that marked him as different to the others, and their guarded expressions when their eyes settled upon him. The air was charged, as if any number of outcomes hung in the balance. However, Kyla also noted from her vantage point though it lacked a view of his face, that he seemed relaxed. She didn't know if this should comfort her, or worry her.

 

The older man had called him by the title 'Scout'. If her Latin was correct, it meant that he was a fact finder who roamed ahead of others to gather information. A great deal of skill was required to be do the task successfully, such that the wielder was usually held in high regard, amongst the Picts at least. Kyla had already played witness to attest to the Roman's aptitude to the position. Though why he would be scouting in the direction of her village still eluded her. 

 

She watched as he barely nodded his head in confirmation of the elder Roman's statement, causing Kyla's heart to plummet somewhere below her navel, before he took a couple of slow steps forward, closing the gap between the two men. There was a ripple of movement from the soldiers surrounding them, some had swords partially drawn, others were in the process of stepping towards the two central figures. All motion stopped as their Commander raised his hand, signalling them to desist. 

 

The two men were so close that there was an audible sound as their metal covered chest came into contact. The scout had positioned himself slightly to one side of the older Roman, almost cheek to cheek, both equal in height. The elder man had a slightly amused expression on his face, as if to wonder where this was going. 

 

Then the scout began to talk, quietly. 

 

Kyla strained to hear what he was saying, unknowingly leaning forward in the saddle, to no avail. She could only make out the faint rumble of his speech and watch as the older man's expression slipped to a frown, followed quickly by anger. Face turning red, he dropped his hand to grip his sword handle. The scout didn't react, other than to keep talking, evenly and quietly, his words solely for the Commander's ears. Slowly, the anger dissipated, and what was left behind was uncertainty.

 

The Scout took a step back and met the Centurion’s flinty gaze evenly. The older man seemed to be grinding his teeth down significantly going by the twitching muscles of his jaw. His men watched him expectantly. Kyla held her breath.

 

“Be on your way.” he finally said, stepping to one side, heading towards a small doorway to the right. As he stepped through the entrance he paused, one hand on the door frame, and turned back to regard the Scout.

 

“These men have had a good look at your face now, Sarmatian, they'll not be likely to forget it again.” he said evenly, and was gone.

 

The threat was thinly veiled, and was not lost in translation to Kyla. The Scout's only reaction was to coolly step forward to follow the path leading out of the barracks under the open sky. He paid no mind to the few soldiers that frowned, gripping their weapons, internally struggling with their leader's command. No one actively tried to stop him though and his quiet whistle brought the horse beneath her to life once more. Kyla's grip on the horse's mane tightened again at the forward momentum, her eyes taking in all of the hungry, angry looks that the Scout so easily ignored. One particularly repulsive, unkempt looking soldier met her gaze with a sneer, slowly and pointedly rubbing his crotch through his tunic. Kyla's eyes remained forward after that, as a shiver ran down her spine, silently urging the Scout to step up the pace. Much to her disappointment he continued his unhurried stride until they were out of sight of the small fort. Kyla felt the point between her shoulder blades itching and burning for the duration, waiting for an arrow to follow them into the night and find a home in her back. 

 

Once he must have deemed they were a safe distance away, the Scout turned and reached for the horse's reins and began his mile devouring trot once more, leading them further East, the Wall always in view to their left.

 

As the distance between them and the fort grew, Kyla's anxiety about what lay before her heightened in equal measure. Something that the commanding Roman had said had been niggling in the back of her mind all this time, waiting patiently for the opportunity to be digested properly.  
With dawning apprehension Kyla recalled the word the older man had spit out in his final threat. Some of the puzzle pieces began clicking in to place quickly, the strange clothing, the tattoos, the hostile welcome from the other soldiers. 

“How had I not figured this out sooner?” she berated herself. Kyla suddenly had a very good idea of where she was being lead, and to whom would be there.

 

Her 'Roman' was no Roman at all.

 

The word and all the nightmarish and legendary fire-side stories it conjured rattled around her head with every step closer to their destination.

'Sarmatian'


	8. Chapter 8

Tristan was finally feeling the strain of his relentless pace but was rewarded for his tenacity by their arrival at Badon Hill only a couple of hours after dusk. He slowed down to a walk as they past the burial mounds of his fallen brothers, the drifting smoke that marked each grave barely visible in the dark. It had been almost two years since Gaheris had fallen, the last of their brothers to have done so, after thirteen years of bloody servitude. Gawain had felt the loss more keenly as they had come from the same village and been fast friends from an early age. Tristan didn't pause any more at the site, disliking the memories it evoked, and moved steadily on towards the town. A hawk's cry from the trees near by let him know that Tamura had seen him safely back, he'd be unlikely to see her again until he left the confines of Badon Hill once more. He silently wished her good hunting as a diligent call went out from the ramparts above the main double gates while they were still hundreds of meters away and one heavy door slowly creaked open to welcome him home.

 

Home. Tristan didn't really know where that was for him any more. It had been over fifteen years since he'd last laid eyes on the village he grew up in and it's inhabitants. He often tried but couldn't recall his mother's kind face, or the grim tones of his father's voice. His memories were clouded with the darkness that permeated the house when his father had lapsed into the wanton arms of alcohol, which had become more and more frequent as the years went by. Tristan only saw pain in his haunted eyes when they chanced to settle upon him before turning once more to seek out oblivion at the bottom of an earthenware jug. On the day the Romans came to take him away his father had not been present. Tristan's mother had embraced him one last time, clasped her hands around his freshly marked face and told him that one day he would understand why. He reckoned that he did. He wondered if they were still alive and if he'd ever get to tell them so.

 

Some of his brothers hearts beat only for the grassy, wild plains of their motherland, counting down the days to begin their long journey back to the bosom of family and friends. Tristan recalled the long months of travel that had brought them to this island and did not relish repeating it. Others, he suspected, were more at home in this blasted outpost than they cared to admit. Bors had had no issues mingling with the locals, at least one in particular at any rate, from an early age. Tristan found it amusing that he had not yet tied the knot with Vanora, as if to keep some pretence of not being attached to this land and it's people. Though when Bors coaxed her to sing of home, none of the knights could help but feel a little lost. For Tristan, home was with his brothers for now and wherever they were, though he could do with avoiding their imminent reunion. He was late returning and knew that they would be gathered at the tavern, cajoling and rowdy, pretending a little too hard that they weren't worried by his absence.

 

As he crossed through the threshold of the outer wall of the town, waved through by those manning the gate, he remembered his most recent encounter with the Roman legion. He was a fool for not anticipating the scene back at the small fort, absorbing the knowledge he had become lax through his dealing with the Badon Hill battalion who let the knights have the run of the place. Though the Sarmatians kept mainly to themselves, some of them had formed friendships with the local infantry after years of fighting side by side, and had earned the Romans respect in return. There were still those few amongst them who begrudged Arthur's Pagan fighters, but on the whole the knights were warmly welcomed and a source of pride at the fortress. 

 

He doubted the girl would be so readily accepted. He turned his head slightly to look at her briefly and was met with a defiant, yet questioning, look. In her eyes were a hundred questions vying with a hundred accusations, trying to mask the underlying fear that also resided there. She had managed to cling on to Saratos during their hurried journey, but after rallying herself at the last confrontation she truly did seem spent. He had had some small worry that she would try something foolish while surrounded by those stationed at the small fort and had been glad she had not drawn any more attention to herself by acting out. He added threatening the Centurian commander with extremely inventive physical violence followed by the added threat of arranging his immediate transfer of duties to the abandoned Antonine Wall, currently deep in Pict territory, to the list of things he had to remember to mention to Arthur when he debriefed. He wondered how he would explain bringing the Woad prisoner back from a scouting mission. Perhaps it would help if Tristan himself knew his motivation. 

 

As he meandered through the maze of streets, past Arthur's enclosed residence, closer to the tavern, he let the apprehensive looks from the townsfolk wash over him. Bringing a Woad in amongst the sanctuary of their dwellings was not common practise and they appeared unsure of how to handle it. Some openly stopped and stared, others scurried away, shutting their doors securely behind them, accompanied by mutters of 'blue demon'. He wondered what she would look like painted head to toe in the dye from the plant that gave Woads their name, he imagined she would look quite fierce. 

 

He heard the tavern before he saw it and mentally braced himself, it was always busy at this time of evening.

 

'Tristan!'

 

It didn't surprise Tristan that Galahad was the first to spot him. Arguably the most passionate, emphatic of the knights, he would have found it the most difficult to have suppressed the urge to vigilantly scan the surrounding streets. More welcome cries of 'Tristan' were added to Galahad's first exclamation, followed by the more uncertain '...Tristan?'. The slight inflection at the end changing the name from a statement to a question.

 

Tristan lead his prisoner just shy of the well lit yard in front of the tavern as his brothers rose to their feet, some abandoning games of chance, others depositing slightly inebriated women off of their laps. Most were looking at the girl astride Saratos in confusion, Dagonet however cut straight to the point.

 

'You've been hurt' he said firmly, approaching his stoic brother, eyes taking in the blood on the sleeve of his tunic and trousers, already assessing the damage, immediately deeming the wounds non consequential, before appraising the girl behind him. 

 

'The girl?' Dagonet enquired. Tristan was unsure if he meant her wounds or her presence in general so he chose the former to answer as it seemed the least complicated.

 

'Superficial wounds, already dressed.' came his gruff reply.

 

'Tristan, really? You're bringing home strays now?' Lancelot intoned with a smirk and a lift of one dark eyebrow as he drew nearer, circling around behind the horse to get a better look at the girl, catching her attention in the process. 

 

'She's not a stray' came the curt reply. Tristan was rarely at the receiving end of the others teasing, they lost interest in the pursuit from early in their acquaintance once they realised how difficult it was to get a rise from him. Lancelot knew his brother well enough to recognise the subtle tightening around Tristan's eyes for the warning that it was, and it appeared to delight him. To get any form of reaction from his most unflappable friend was a heady thing indeed it seemed.

 

'I didn't realise I was monopolising the attention of the local females. There are many fine women here that would gladly spend some time with you Tris and I'm more than willing to share. No need to go to such lengths for a night of debauchery' he smiled widely, playing the innocent. Tristan didn't rise to the bait, knowing the best way to deal with Lancelot was to ignore him.

 

“Well I'm jus' glad he's back” Bors declared, only slurring his words slightly, clamping one large hand down on Tristan's shoulder and giving him a friendly shake whilst downing the last of his drink. 

“Vanora, m'love, fetch me another of your finest” he roared, turning on his heels, waving the empty jug in the direction of the fiery haired woman and stumbling back towards the serving counter, too in his cups to be curious about the presence of the Pict.

 

“Tristan, what's this all about?” Gawain asked, nodding his head in the direction of the girl.  
The question made him uncomfortable, though it was nigh impossible to read this by looking at him. He still had no idea what had stayed his hand from the killing blow, but it was something he needed more time to figure out by himself. 

 

“She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked.” he said, not bothering to look at the girl in question. Gawain just frowned at his reply, clearly attempting to unravel the reason why the girl was here instead of in a bloody dead mess across the wall. If he was waiting for Tristan to volunteer any more information he was to be disappointed.

 

Tristan was suddenly tired. He wanted to eat and drink his fill and be left alone to dissect his thoughts in the privacy of his own room, but there were still many things to be done before he would be able to replay the days events at his leisure. He turned to face his four legged companion and the bothersome load he carried. The look he gave the girl was not friendly. She was watching him warily, while simultaneously trying to observe each and every one of his brothers, as well as the rest of the punters at the tavern who in turn were enthralled by the scene unravelling before them. She was evidently apprehensive of what was to come if her flitting eyes and elevated breathing were any indication, though that stubborn head was still held high for all that. He supposed he'd spared her life thus far so it would be pointless to take her out behind the stables and finish the job now, eliminating any unwanted soul searching in the process. Kill and move on. It was all so simple, usually.

 

With a nod of his head, his eyes darted from the girl to the ground and back again. She was intuitive, none of his directions were lost on her before, so he knew that she understood his command, she just wasn't obeying. The Woad looked as if the last thing she wanted to do was climb down off of Saratos. She continued cautiously eyeing him and the other knights, some of whom wore quite amused expressions on their faces.

 

Tristan was regretting not going through the motions of getting her to dismount before they had entered the fort, saving himself the unwanted audience. He gained her scrutiny once more as he moved towards her, navigating around to her left to stand near Saratos's hind leg, passing Lancelot along the way who obligingly moved back a step, still smirking. She swivelled her upper body around to keep him in her sights, lips in a tight line, eyes narrowed, left leg tensing as if to strike. Tristan slowly reached his hand out, eyes still locked on hers, and plucked up the the looped section of rope that hung loose down the horse's side which still kept her tethered to the saddle. He was sure the townsfolk would love nothing better than the spectacle of him physically removing the Woad from atop the horse, with her arms bound and no way to break the fall she could be seriously hurt. Tristan would not hesitate to do it if he had no choice, but he gave her the opportunity to submit to him once more.

 

The girl's expression broke into one of anguished frustration, teeth gritted, forehead creasing in a frown. She dropped her head and looked away, staring intensely at the horse's mane. Tristan sensed the battle raging within her. It wasn't in his nature to bend to another's will, so he could identify with her difficulty in obeying him. He could see her weighing up her options, as he had witnessed her do now on many occasions, already knowing she would acquiesce. Her survival instincts were too well honed not to balance the potential physical harm against such a small token of rebellion. She let out an exasperated growl, the self-conscious glance around her immediately after let him know it was unintentional and that she was angry with herself for letting it slip. Raising her chin in grim determination was becoming a familiar sight, and some small part of Tristan felt comforted by the action. He was in no mood to entertain the reasons why.

 

Eyes trained forward, she attempted to kick first one, then the other, foot out of the stirrups. Her right foot had slipped too far into the metal ring and she was having difficulty shaking it free. Dagonet, helpful to a fault, took one step towards her to assist, but was stopped immediately by the look the girl must have given him as her head shot around in his direction. Tristan was not privy to her expression, but Dagonet held up his hands in mock surrender and stepped back once more, throwing Tristan a curious look. The Woad shook her right foot furiously once more, finally succeeding in freeing it.

 

She swung her right leg over Saratos's neck, wincing as her body doubled over, reminding Tristan of her wounded stomach, scooting her body around in the process. Saratos was not the tallest horse in the fort by a long shot, but it was still a long way down. Rope still in hand, Tristan took a step back in invitation to the girl who was gathering her resolve to dismount, she spared him a poisonous glance for his trouble before considering the ground in a calculating fashion. With one large inhale of breath she slid herself off of the smooth leather, feet connecting with the earth once more. Tristan watched with apprehension as her knees gave out beneath her and her body pitched forward. Her eyes shut tight and her faced scrunched up, anticipating the impact with the ground that she was unable to brace herself against.

Tristan knew immediately that there was nothing he could do to help her from where he was standing but it was with some foreboding that he watched as a pair of darkly clad arms encircled the girl and broke her fall.

Lancelot grinned down at wildling in his arms as she opened her eyes in surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *no notes*


	9. Chapter 9

Sarmatians.   
Of all the bloody scum that could have come close to Calum, it had to be a thrice damned Sarmatian Knight. Kyla may have fancied her chances going up against a regular Roman officer, perhaps even odds of getting out alive, but the outcome of a one on one fight against a Sarmatian Knight was never going to be in her favour. Kyla knew that had she had this bit of information before her attack it would have made no difference to her subsequent actions. She had no choice but to gain his attention and distract him long enough to give Calum the time he needed to hide or get away.

 

Kyla had been too distracted by the surrounding Romans at the small fort for the title to have sunk in properly, but once it did her blood had run cold and it had felt like her stomach had dropped right out of her body. She was dealing with a different breed of warrior than previously supposed. She'd grown up hearing the same stories all Pictish children heard at night of the big, bad Sarmatians across the Wall. Their fighting prowess was well known, few who engaged them in combat lived to tell the tale, and talk of their bravery went uncontested. The stories ranged from one extreme to the other; they were demons bred on blood and pain; they flayed the skin off their enemies while still alive; they were blessed by the gods and all who raised their arms against them would fall; they could be pierced ten times by a blade and still would not die. Kyla had the sense to know that these tales were told more as a form of entertainment than a source of factual information. There were certainly a greater number of Knights when she was a child than there reportedly were now so they were clearly not immortal, but it was still unsettling to find herself at the mercy of one.

 

At his mercy she surely was. Kyla was in no state to put up a fight now, she hadn't been for quite some time. It took the last of her energy just to stay on top of the horse who's every step seemed an attempt to unseat her. She could feel the muscles in her thighs and calves aching. When their destination came into sight it filled her with equal amounts of relief and apprehension. The previous fort was not a patch on the stronghold before them. As tall as the Wall itself, it took up a vast space judging by the points of light atop the perimeter. Kyla couldn't begin to imagine how many people lived behind its vast walls and what her fate would be upon entry. 

 

The Roman, no, Sarmatian slowed down to a walk as they passed a hill covered in small grassy tussocks with smoke rising languidly skywards, just visible. Kyla wondered how many Knights were counted amongst the dead and swore that she'd try and put another in the ground if she had the chance. The cry of a hawk distracted her from dwelling too long on the subject and brought her focus back to the double entranceway looming before them. A call had gone up from above the gates that now slowly opened at their approached. Kyla was afforded her first look inside the immense fortification. The guards waving them through appeared a lot more agreeable towards the Sarmatian than the last crowd had, though she was not afforded the same welcome. 

 

She looked behind her wistfully as the gates were shut once more, a sliver of the beckoning landscape becoming smaller and smaller until is was no more. She doubted that she'd live past the night, but there was a sense of finality with the closing of those gates, like a trap snapping shut. Kyla felt her chest constrict and tighten with rising panic. As she looked forward once more she caught the eyes of her captor. The continuous train of thought she'd had since waking up bound and, most inexplicably, still alive ran through her mind. Just what did he have in store for her?

 

She was led past a smaller, central fortification surrounded with iron bars, with roofs of overlapping tiles supported by impossibly slim pillars of stone and she supposed that it was the residence of someone of importance. Surrounding this building where the smaller yet still impressive dwellings and trading stalls of the townsfolk. Evenly spaced out in straight lines on either side of where the traffic flowed, they were a world apart from Kyla's more humble village lodgings. The whole place made her feel vaguely trapped and enclosed, like the walls were too high and the air too thin.

 

It couldn't escape her notice that her presence was the cause of many a door to slam shut, accompanied by a muttered word and deadly look. Other townsfolk openly stared at her, mouths agape, too surprised by her presence to react. Kyla resisted the urge to growl and snap her teeth at them like the savage they assumed her to be. She eyed them angrily, noting that other than an abundance of clothing and some shorter hairstyles they still looked like Britons to her. She wondered what they would look like painted head to toe in the dye from the woad plant her people favoured in battle and it almost raised a smile to her lips. Then she recalled the whispered stories of the entertaining arenas that the Romans were so fond of and whether these people were wondering what she would look like painted head to toe in her own blood.

 

It was not long before she heard the sounds of revelry drifting on the air from a location ahead of them, the brighter concentration of fires and lamps illuminating the area like a beacon. Kyla shuddered at the comparison of herself to a moth drawn closer to the flame. Her heart rate picked up steadily as they approached the crowd of people eagerly guzzling down tankards of alcohol and plates of food, an air of debauchery permeating the atmosphere. Within seconds one man had spotted them and cried out in greeting with obvious joy on his face, getting to his feet earnestly. He looked to be not much older than Kyla and had a short beard and dark hair. His call garnered most of the peoples attention in the tavern courtyard and other robust men called out in acknowledgement of their arrival. Was she the lamb to the slaughter, the evenings entertainment that they had been waiting for? She reconsidered when eyes turned to her in confusion. Apparently they were just as baffled by her presence as she was. It occurred to her as she surveyed the scene that what the men were calling out was a name. 

 

“Drosten?” she thought, looking at the back of her captor's head. She rolled the name around in her mind, struggling to humanise the man so that he ceased to be the 'Roman', or the 'Sarmatian', the ambiguous entity who had taken her. Drosten was a Pictish name however and it left Kyla feeling somewhat unsettled.

 

“Tristan...?” a well built man with long, dirty blonde hair called out, lilting the name into a question, clearly perplexed.

 

'Tristan' she clarified, picking up on the inflection and difference in the plosive sounds. It was similar, but distinct enough that it sounded slightly alien to her. She wasn't sure why that made her feel better, perhaps she wanted there to be no blurring the lines between 'us' and 'them'. A few of 'them' were moving slowly towards her and Kyla's eyes rapidly moved between the approaching warriors, taking in their appearance, their weapons, their expressions, looking for any hint of what they were about to do.

There were five of them in total, all dressed similarly to 'Tristan' leaving Kyla to deduce that they were the other famed Sarmatian Knights. This thought made her heart beat faster still as the tallest of the Knights came closer yet. His head was shaved close to the scalp and there was one long scar running down his cheek from his left eye. He spoke directly to Tristan, his eyes taking note of his injuries, before elevating them to her appraisingly. Kyla should have felt more intimidated under the large man's scrutiny but she felt like his look was clinical and assessing, unlike the nefarious looks she'd gleaned from the soldiers at the previous fort. 

 

“Superficial wounds, already dressed” came Tristan's gruff reply to the taller man's verbal enquiry about her. Kyla felt like a spell had been shattered that had hung between them upon hearing his voice for the first time. It had seemed like an age since they had drawn blades against each other in the forest. With the revelation of his name, and hearing him speak, Kyla realised that she had been viewing him as some sort of phantom, instead of the man of flesh and blood that he actually was. His voice was low, quiet but clear, and she could detect a flavour to his accent that she hadn't identified from the taller man which she found curious. 

 

A dark Knight, clothing black as the hair on his head, caught her full attention as he began circling in an arc behind the horse. Kyla wondered if it was a ploy to spilt her concentration from the group. There was definitely a heat in his gaze that let her know that he appreciated what he was looking at which made Kyla's body tense all over. The uncomfortable flow of adrenaline increased her sense of unease once more as she took in the gist of what he was implying about Tristan's intentions towards her. She felt like his tone was teasing, but was unsure if it was directed at her.

 

Kyla whipped her head around quickly as the loud grumblings of a stocky Knight, inebriated beyond speaking coherently clasped Tristan roughly on the shoulder, making a declaration of happiness that the scout was home before staggering back in the direction of a flame haired woman.

 

The fair haired Knight spoke up again, requiring an explanation. Kyla held her breath without realising it. She stared intently at the back of Tristan's head, willing him to answer. 

“She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked.”

Once again, a short, clipped answer. This comment clearly was as unsatisfying to the Knight as it was to her, going by his expression. It seemed he was a man of few words which frustrated her no end. Tristan turned around to finally make eye contact with her once more. His brown eyes were dark and angry with more expression in them than she'd witnessed thus far and she returned his gaze with equal venom, though every shift and movement from the surrounding Knights continued to split her attention away from him. When he had her attention he inclined his head to the ground on her left and back to her once more. Kyla felt her grip tighten on the beast's mane once again as she took in his meaning, cursing the man with her thoughts.

 

False as the feeling was, she felt safer astride the massive horse. She did not want to be on the same level as five of the most intimidating men she had ever set eyes upon, men who her people told stories about around the fire on a cold Winters night to scare young children. She gritted her teeth and continued to look down her nose at her captor, daring him to make her. 

 

As ever, she could read nothing more of his expression, but his actions were clear as melting ice. As he moved to her left, Kyla shifted her weight into the right stirrup, waiting for him to get close enough that she could kick out at his face, but he stayed just out of reach. He plucked up the rope that tethered her to the animal, needlessly reminding her of her bindings and the power he held in his hands. If Kyla had the ability to incinerate with a look Tristan would have gone up in flames. She had never despised someone so much that her entire body shook with the emotion before. Teeth clench and brow creased in a frown, Kyla tore her eyes away from the infuriatingly patient warrior, staring sightlessly at the horses mane once more, hands clenched painfully as she composed herself. She desperately wanted to disobey, just for the sake of it. Kyla gave serious consideration to making a stand here and now, Gods be damned. She had waited this long for a 'better' opportunity to escape and he hadn't given her one inch. She wondered if a quick death now would be preferable to whatever lay ahead, hopes of escape long past. She already knew that she would do as he bid but it galled her to admit it. Her frustration trickled out in the form of a growl before she could check herself. 

 

Kyla took a deep breath, deciding she would deal with whatever came next as it happened. Eyes straight forward once more, she straightened her back and tossed her dark hair from her eyes. She kicked out her left foot to shake it free of the stirrup. Discouragingly her right heel had slipped too far in to the ring and would not shift. Kyla shot daggers at the tall Knight as he moved forward, apparently offering to assist. He caught her look and stopped short, hands in the air and stepped back once more. Kyla crushed down the feelings of embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm her as she finally freed her foot. She took a second to consider her next move before resolutely throwing her right leg over the horses neck. She attempted to hide the pain this caused her wounded stomach but she imagined she was unsuccessful.

 

She eyed the ground anxiously, it seemed like a long way down from where she was perched. She had already experienced how compromised her balance was from not being able to use her arms and hoped that she could land just right. Tristan took a step back to give her more space which incurred a particularly venomous look from her. How considerate of the bastard.

 

There was nothing for it, she either got down off the horse herself, or was 'assisted' down. Kyla took a deep breath and angled her hips forward slightly, causing her to slide off of the smooth leather. Her feet touched earth, and for a second she felt triumphant. In dismay she realised that her legs were no longer under her control and could feel them give way beneath her. With no chance to brace her fall, Kyla was certain that she was heading straight to kiss the dirt and scrunched her face tight in anticipation.

 

The expected collision never came to pass as Kyla inexplicably found herself caught tight in a steadying embrace. Her eyes shot open in shock at the unforeseen contact, taking in the grinning, well groomed face of the dark Knight who's eyes sparkled with mirth. Kyla was momentarily stupefied at the situation and the proximity of the stranger. It contrasted so sharply with the distance, she now acknowledged, that the scout had kept her at this whole time. 

“Careful” he crooned smoothly, smirking down at her in amusement. Kyla gasped quietly, panic settling in her stomach as she gathered her feet under her once more, uncomfortably aware that her bound hands were crushed between them far too close to an area of the Knight's body she did not wish them to be near. 

 

“Easy now” he said, clearly entertained by the situation but keeping a steadying grip on the girl as she tried to pull away. 

Kyla's head cleared instantly. What use were her hours of training if she was so easily intimidated and so slow to react. Her expression became dark and focused immediately. She saw the Knight realise a second too late that she was about to act.

 

“Lancelot!”, came a warning shout from behind her as she reached for the dagger at his hip within easy reach. Grasping the handle with both hands she used her shoulder to shove him back as she freed the blade from it's sheath while he stumbled off balance. Kyla raised the blade as high as she could, with murder singing in her heart. She launched herself forward aiming for his gut, when a sharp tug on her wrists spun her around sharply in the opposite direction. She couldn't help but cry out in frustration.

 

For the second time that day Kyla felt the cold blade of the scout's sword at her exposed throat, forcing her to reach her head back uncomfortably to avoid it. His other hand held the rope taut between them. Her bound wrists meant she could neither slash upwards, nor forwards. He had her at his mercy once more. Kyla's grip refused to loosen on the dagger as their eyes met. 

 

She honestly didn't know how many more times she had it in her to back down, to stop fighting and give in. She felt like every time that she did she was betraying herself on some level. Her pride certainly was taking some beating. The scout just watched her with his fathomless dark eyes, waiting for her to react. She felt utterly lost. 

 

Without dropping his gaze Kyla leaned her head slowly forward once more, knowing that he would never retreat before her. She felt the sharpness of the blade as it came into contact with her skin once more. 

 

Kyla could not see any other way out. She would die at his hands eventually, was it not better to be done with it now before whatever they had planned for her? This way at least she had some control in how she died. She leaned her body in closer still, feeling the warm trickle of blood trail down her neck and over her collarbone as the blade bit into her deeper. 

 

And still he watched her, still he waited, offering her the choice, his eyes a dark storm in an otherwise blank face. Her vision blurred slightly with tears she refused to shed. She felt exposed and she hated that he was witnessing it. It seemed like an eternity past with nothing existing outside of the two of them before Kyla finally turned her head to one side, breaking their locked gaze and removing the immediate threat of the blade from her throat. She didn't have it in her to consciously take her own life, even if it was through the subsequent actions of someone else. Tristan didn't move until she reluctantly let the dagger fall slowly from her fingers.

 

Kyla felt like she had stepped back from the edge of a precipice. She had seen death in Tristan's eyes, but it was not a cold, vast nothingness. There was a heat there, a fire that could consume and destroy. Tristan had returned his sword to the sheath on his back, years of practise making the movement smooth and precise. 

 

Kyla finally took note of the other Knights that had drifted closer to them during their altercation. As she willed herself to return each man's stare she could see see there was a slight difference in how they viewed her now, a new sense of appreciation perhaps? A modicum of wariness or respect? Or just like a dog that had done an interesting trick. 

 

Tristan turned to the tall Knight who was closest to him, handing over the rope into the larger man's hands as he returned to the horse's saddle to work loose the other end. Kyla felt the towering man's eyes drop down to assess the wound on her neck, while simultaneously appraising her other injuries upon closer inspection. She kept her damnable chin high in a faux sense of challenge and when his eyes reached hers again she was surprised that there was a hint of kindness to them. Kyla was prepared to be beaten, to be mocked and ridiculed, but not that. It made her uneasy so she broke away first. 

 

Kyla watched as the black Knight retrieved the dagger that had dropped blade first into the dirt, noting that many of other Knights were now grinning at him. 

 

“Dirt washes off easier than blood, eh Lancelot?” beamed the Knight who had first spotted Kyla and Tristan, evidently delighted that she had almost gutted his brother. 

 

“Here I thought that no woman could resist your charms?” added the fair haired Knight, clapping Lancelot good naturedly on the back.

 

“Yes, well, clearly she's just a blue demon in the guise of a woman come to tempt me, I believe my record goes untarnished” replied Lancelot, arching one dark eyebrow in her direction as he returned the blade to it's sheath, taking the abuse light heartedly. 

 

Kyla was completely baffled by all of their reactions. This 'Lancelot' appeared to hold no ill will towards her for her actions, nor did the other Knights. Clearly she was in the 'dog doing an interesting trick' category. 

 

“Galahad, could you see to Saratos” Tristan interrupted, the mood became subdued once more.

 

“Of course” the younger Knight replied, immediately heading to take the reins of the dappled stallion. “It's good to have you back Tris” he called as he headed off in the direction of what Kyla assumed where the stables.

 

“I'll let Arthur know that you've returned,” smirked the man Kyla now knew as Lancelot , “and that you've brought home a...surprise.” Her stomach turned slightly at the wink he threw her. The mention of their celebrated leader doing nothing to set her at ease.

 

“She's all yours Tristan” he proclaimed as he stepped away in the direction they had come from. Kyla chased away the implications of his closing statement once more, surreptitiously glancing at Tristan to see if he would react, which he didn't. 

 

“Well it looks like Bors needs help drinking that flagon and what sort of friend would I be if I didn't lend him a hand. Looking forward to having you fill in the blanks later Tristan” said the fair haired Knight jovially, pointedly glancing at Kyla before turning to the crowded tavern who's occupants had slowly returned their attention back to the task of drinking to oblivion. As the Knights left one by one, Kyla's heightened senses began to dull once more, the stores of adrenaline finally spent. At her strongest she couldn't fight off one Knight, let alone two but Kyla felt resigned to whatever fate had in store for her. She just felt like a shell of herself.

 

“Dag?” Tristan asked the remaining Knight, a loaded question that Kyla couldn't decipher. Whatever was implied, the tall man nodded his acceptance, handing the rope back over. Tristan shot a warning look to Kyla, a look she was becoming quickly tired of seeing that communicated clearly that she was not to try anything. Kyla didn't know if she could any more, even if she had wanted to.


	10. Chapter 10

Tristan didn't need to see what direction Dagonet was heading. Jols had living quarters situated next to the Knights' and if anyone in the fort knew how to patch someone back up it was him, having had the dubious honour of tending to any and every injury the collective had incurred through the long years. He was the ever present anchor that was there to see the knights off on every mission, the first one to welcome them home when they returned and the one who saw to the bodies of the recently deceased, preparing them for their journey into the afterlife. Tristan doubted his own healing abilities and was keen to have the girl seen to.

 

There was no need to explain this to Dagonet. The large man had a knack for anticipating the needs of others, being naturally observant there was little that he missed. Of all of his brothers Dagonet was the one where verbal communication was needed least, which Tristan had a healthy respect for. He knew that, more than likely, he himself would be ambushed by the two to have his own wounds tended to upon their return. 

 

Tristan made his way to a section of the fort where the regular infantry were stationed. The holding cells would do to accommodate the girl until he had time to figure out what was to be done with her, at the very least she could be questioned in regards to the attacks. He recalled the moment that he had seen her fumbled landing, right into the waiting arms of Lancelot. His mind had warred between relief that she had been spared the harmful descent and some emotion, he hesitated to label it 'anger', that he had not been the one to break her fall. 

 

Was he becoming possessive of the girl, in such a short time? He quietly reasoned that he had brought her here, thus the responsibility of dealing with her fell to him. Yes, that seemed a satisfactory explanation. 

 

Past experience had him analysing her movements immediately, anticipating her intentions as her body had frozen in Lancelot's arms. His warning call had been too late for Lancelot to react to but he still had the means of controlling her in is grasp. He hadn't hesitated to draw his sword whilst using the rope to throw off her momentum.

 

Some men beat a young horse into submission to break them, a battle of dominance resulting in the animal becoming a servant, a 'tool' to command and use. Tristan had always favoured the slower, trust building approach common in his home village. Though more time consuming, it resulted in a more symbiotic bond between the two and a healthier level of respect. 

 

The Woad was being as stubborn as a mountain goat. He wanted her to stop fighting him so that he could stop forcing her into submission, and yet she would not be the fiery, calculating character he was beginning to identify her as if she did. Unknowingly she had tested his resolve. Tristan recalled the moment she had leaned into his sharp blade and he'd seen the torment in her eyes, unsure if she would force his hand. It had felt like fate had hung in the balance as he waited for her next move. An exterior show of calm masked the sense of relief that had flooded him when she had bowed down once more. He had stayed his hand before, would he have done it a second time, surrounded by his brothers? He was glad he didn't have to find out.

 

As they approached the holding cells curious eyes turned in their direction. The infantry mess hall was where the garrison relaxed and socialised after their duties, when not heading to the tavern. As Tristan, with girl in tow, passed by the off duty men they piqued the interest of a fair few. Tristan decided he was thoroughly sick of being the centre of attention as he stood to one side of the doorway of the prison for the girl to pass through. She did so placidly, green eyes trained ahead in a dull, unfocused fashion. 'Resigned', that was one description for her expression. Though Tristan preferred her to acquiesce, worry blossomed in the pit of his stomach.

 

The cell itself was a sparse room, roughly eight foot by ten, with two slivers of openings serving as windows on the back wall, barely allowing any outside illumination into the dark interior. There was a low wooden cot, covered over with hay that was well past being fresh, and one scratchy woollen blanket. A small wooden bucket served as a toilet, thankfully empty. The only only other addition to the room were the two heavy metal rings set high up on one wall.

 

As the Pict stood passively in the centre of the room facing the cot, Tristan observed her momentarily before entering. He pulled on the rope gently, succeeding in coercing her to turn to face him. She refused to look at him though, grimly focusing on the door-frame behind him, her chin still high. He slowly walked towards her, confident in the knowledge that he could easily subdue her but watching her movements none the less for tell tale signs she would resist. Her body was tense, all her tired muscles wound tight, but she didn't move. When Tristan was before her he slowly reached out to undo the knot that kept her bound wrists leashed close to her waist. Making sure not to make actual physical contact he slowly worked the knot loose. The foremost part of Tristan's mind was calculating and weighing the possibilities of her every minuscule movement, but in the background he was absently absorbing other details about the girl. The way her breathing accelerated in fear when he had reached for the knot; how she smelled of horse and sweat and the forest itself; how small she was compared to him.

 

Once the the knot around her waist was free Tristan stepped back immediately, being so near in the dark felt too...intimate. Keeping one eye on the Pict he took the end of the rope and looped it through both rings attached to the wall. The only movement the girl made was to turn her head slightly to the right, to watch him through her peripheral vision. As the rope began to grow taut he slowly applied the pressure so as not to catch her unawares. She offered no resistance as she was slowly compelled closer to the wall, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. Once there was no slack between her bound wrists, now high above her head, and the the rings, Tristan secured the loose end to the one furthest from her. Though her head didn't move he could tell she still noted his actions from the corner of her eye.

 

Tristan leaned one shoulder against the door-frame and looked at her openly, not the furtive glances he had been throwing her way. She looked dishevelled, her curling dark hair falling in front of her eyes much as his was wont to do. Her posture had slumped minutely, taking an inch off of her relatively petite stature, and a certain sense of defeat hung in the air around her. Perhaps the fight had finally left her? Tristan knew fine well that his blatant observation was a form of baiting, but he couldn't help himself. Where had the stubborn defiance gone to? He found himself willing her to look his way, anger fuelled or not, but the damnable woman kept her eyes forward on the blank wall, effectively ignoring him. The silent battle of wills was disrupted by the arrival of Jols and Dagonet. 

 

“Tristan” Jols greeted him quietly with a smile that displayed the relief he felt at seeing his friend's safe return. Tristan couldn't help but let a small smile play on his lips in return, albeit short lived. His momentary lapse of stoicism seemed to amuse Dagonet.

 

“Dagonet informed me about our...guest” Jols got straight to the point, looking behind Tristan further into the dark room. Tristan stood to one side as Jols took a flaming torch from the exterior and placed it into the free sconce on the opposite wall to where Kyla was restrained. As Dagonet joined them, the room began to feel a little crowded and Tristan noted that the girl was losing her attempt at nonchalance. 

 

The Woad's eyes followed Jols as he placed a leather bag on to the cot and began removing a water skin and various earthenware pots, each identifiable by the different ways they had been stoppered. Some had variations of coloured wax, others had twine wrapped around them in differing woven patterns or knots. Once Jols had his ointments, salves and bundle of bandaging material in order he turned to the girl, craning his head slightly to asses her blood stained front, whilst walking slowly to her left side. Her head whipped around to keep him in her sights.

 

Jols held his hands in front of him, palms forward in as non threatening a fashion as he could manage. He had her full attention. While still a few feet away, he pointed to her wounded left arm before returning his hands to the same position. The Pict looked equally confused and mistrustful, her sharp green eyes boring into Jols' in an attempt to interpret his actions and the motivation behind them, before briefly searching Tristan's face for an answer that was not forthcoming. Jols once again pointed slowly to the injured arm, currently raised close to her face, before once again raising both hands to her in supplication. Her eyes followed his movements, glanced quickly at the wound, before finding Jols again. The Woad gave no indication of consent, nor understanding, just continued to focus intently on Jols.

 

He took a slow and deliberate step towards her. Tristan moved minutely in the doorway, making himself ready to act if the need arose, which earned him a wary glance from the girl. Jols paused, giving her time to adjust to his proximity, before taking another step closer. Now within range he haltingly reached for the dressing around her arm, taking care to keep eye contact. The Pict craned her neck back slightly as his hands neared her face. Trusting she would not fight if he took a slow methodical approach, Jols began to unwrap the bandage that Tristan had hastily secured. 

 

Tristan was diligent as Jols relaxed stance informed him that he had gone into 'healer' mode, no longer focusing on the girl but the wounded arm that needed attending. She obligingly lifted her arm out towards him as she watched his deft hands releasing the soiled, blood stained wrapping. She bared her teeth slightly, but otherwise remained still as he probed appraisingly around the damaged area.

 

'Dagonet?' Without another word, Dagonet reached for the water skin and one small scrap of clean material and handed them to Jols under the watchful eye of the bound girl. He liberally poured water over the affected area, cleaning away what blood had crusted on her arm and gently wiped the area clean, receiving a small hiss in response. Tristan was surprised that she was tolerating the attention.

 

Handing the skin and cloth back to Dagonet he directed the tall man to one of the pots on the bed, quickly breaking the seal before applying it generously to the slashed skin. Tristan detected a hint of fascination in the girl's guarded expression as she watched the man tend to her. She frequently noted Dagonet and Tristan's position in the room with fleeting glances but otherwise her attention belonged to Jols. He quickly dressed the wound up again before giving Kyla a small reassuring smile. He nodded towards her stomach, indicating his intentions to look at the wound there. There was a long moment of stillness before Tristan barely noticed the slightest bob of her head that gave Jols the permission he needed. He began to gingerly and patiently unwrap the length of material across her abdomen and around her back, passing the cloth from hand to hand as his arms carefully encircled her waist without touching her.

The Pict took a large breath that she held in, making her chest expand but her stomach as small as possible, elbows high, and froze on the spot. She stared resolutely ahead of her until Jols had completed his task before letting out her breath again. 

 

“Em...” Jols did a small swirling motion with one finger to indicate that the she should turn around to face him more. Her mouth dropped open slightly, her eyes a little wider, before she snapped it shut once more. She twisted her body slightly, exposing more of her stomach, but as Jols reached to lift back a section of her tunic she abruptly turned to the wall again, hiding her stomach from his questing hands. Tristan immediately took a step into the room at her sudden movement but stopped short as Jols held up a hand towards him, while still looking at the girl. 

'You don't know just how resourceful she could be', Tristan thought, the incident with Lancelot clear in his mind, but he took heed of the request. Jols had managed well on his own so far.

 

“Please...” Jols entreated quietly, his hands held aloft once more in question. Tristan was at the unwelcome end of her poisonous glare anew before she shut her eyes and turned her hips towards Jols. He made short work of assessing and dressing her stomach whilst trying to ignore her sharp intakes of breath, sensing speed was essential in this instance. Tristan's eyes rested on her face, as she kept hers unwaveringly on the wall until Jols had finished. As he straightened, he circled to her right side to look at her most recently acquired injury.

 

Tristan felt his right hand contract slightly as Jols very gently, and very briefly, set his fingers along the Woad's jawline, causing her head to jerk back from him in response, baring her neck to his administrations. The modest touch had Tristan feeling uncomfortable again, his insides roiling with an unknown emotion he couldn't fathom. His index finger and thumb rubbed together absently as he fought not to frown. Tristan was a master of his emotions and he'd trained long and hard so that his body obeyed his every command. What was it about this slip of a girl that threw him off balance? As Jols wiped her neck clean of the blood Tristan had spilled, her eyes found his, accusing, resentful and bitter. Tristan was on the verge of tearing his eyes away from hers just as Jols ceased his ministrations and she straightened her head once more. He had been so close to backing down, that in itself was an unsettling thought. What had gotten into him?

 

Jols nodded at the subdued girl once before gathering his assorted bit and pieces back into his leather bag and making his way out of the cell with Dagonet. Tristan began to loosen the end of the rope from the second ring, pulling the rope through the circlet with a dry rasping sound. The girl's hands dropped instantly to hip level and she took the opportunity to retreat from him a step, eyes flickering to the doorway the other men had left through. Tristan pulled the rope through the last ring and, taking the loose end, threaded through the small rectangular opening in the centre of the heavy door. As he stepped through the doorframe he heard his name being called. Tristan paused, gaze coming to rest on Galahad who was briskly coming towards them, a bowl carefully cradled between his hands.

“Vanora would have my head if I didn't deliver this” he said jokingly, and yet entirely serious. “She said it'd been a long time since any of us 'vagabonds' had brought her such a tasty looking pair of rabbits and that I was to deliver this post haste to the...well” Galahad gestured to the cell with the bowl of hot lamb stew. Tristan assumed that the fact the rabbits hadn't met their demise at the end of one of his arrows was how they had deduced who the successful hunter was.

 

Before Tristan could respond, Jols had jumped into action, rummaging through his satchel and producing the water skin, now half empty. “Best leave this here too” he supplied, holding the skin aloft momentarily before passing it to Tristan. Galahad ducked in through the door and placed the bowl down in the corner opposite where the bucket lived, sparing a quick grin for the girl hovering near the cot. Tristan gave him a humourless look as he nipped quickly out again. 

 

Tristan looked inside the cell one last time, taking in the confused and angry visage of the wildling woman once more, before tossing the skin to thump solidly and rest beside the bowl of steaming food. He shut the door closed firmly and with perhaps a little more gusto than was strictly need. Tristan's entire being felt unsettled, like he wasn't comfortable in his own skin, and in closing the door on the girl he hoped to shut out the effect she had on him. He dropped the heavy crossbar into it's cradle across the entry with a satisfying 'thunk', securing it with a latch. Aware of his audience Tristan refrained from taking the small moment he wanted to regain his equilibrium. Plenty of time to do that in the solitude of his own room. 

 

Determined, Tristan retrieved the section of rope he had passed through the narrow food hatch, a small opening large enough for a bowl to pass, and began to pull the rest of the slack through. The resistance he felt almost brought a smile to his face. He persistently drew the Pict closer to the opposite side of the door, noting a certain amount struggle, but it felt half hearted. He succeed in drawing the girl's wrists through the opening and quickly latched onto the section that bound them together. 

 

His large hands made hers seem dainty and fragile, and to think she had drawn a blade on him! The skin was stretched white over her knuckles and her nails bit into the palms of her hands as he worked the knot loose. When her hands were finally free she snatched them back inside the cell, quicker than an adder, but not before Tristan caught sight of the angry marks that circled her wrists. Just another injury he had caused to add to the list. Tristan was unused to deliberately hurting people. He offered death swiftly, not painlessly, but those who found themselves at the end of his sword never suffered for long. Tristan started to wonder if what he really needed more than sleep right now was a stiff drink.

He turned to leave and was confronted with two fairly bemused brothers, and one severe looking 'healer'.

“You're not going anywhere until I've had a proper look at you” Jols warned.


	11. Chapter 11

Kyla snatched her hands back through the hatch as soon as she was able, the memory of the Scout's touch ghosting on her skin. She could feel how chaffed her wrists were as she clutched them to her chest but didn't spare them a glance. Kyla's eyes were focused on the door, her ears straining to make out the mumbled conversation that had begun once the crossbar had been dropped with a definitive thud, sealing her in. She kept moving backwards until her calves bumped up against the low cot and tried very hard to stop her mouth from watering as the smell of hot stewed meat and vegetables enveloped the small cell. Ignoring the complaints of her body that vied for her attention, she stood stock still and concentrated on what was happening outside.

 

Kyla could only make out a few words but deduced that the tall knight, Dagonet, and the healer were convincing Tristan to have his wounds tended to, disappointingly minor though they were. She could see nothing through the gap in the door and eventually the voices became fainter as the conversation moved away. Kyla held still for what seemed like an age before she finally let her legs give way beneath her to sit on the cot. She stared blankly at her cell door, confused and still very much alive.

 

When her attack on the dark knight...Lancelot Kyla corrected, had failed she had decided that there was no time to waste energy on what 'could' happen to her and endeavoured to deal with situations as they appeared. She knew that her death wish would be granted soon enough. When the time arrived she would do everything in her last miserable moments to speed it along, and hopefully leave a suitably gruesome reminder of her existence behind to those who had taken her. She may have been beat but Kyla knew she could muster the energy to push her thumb through a man's eye-socket, or crush a nose with her forehead should they get that close. 

 

It would be a bonus to take at least one of them with her when the time came. How many of her people would live if she managed to fatally wound the Scout, she mused? She'd certainly be doing womankind a favour if she could send the dark knight kicking and screaming into the afterlife. The thought kept her focused.

 

So she had followed behind Tristan somewhat meekly. Her imagination had continued into overdrive as he lead her passed a multitude of Roman soldiers. It took great effort to remind herself that she had switched from from offence to defence and that she should not speculate, just deal with the here and now. Kyla had withdrawn inside of herself, resolving to accept the inevitable and play the waiting game. Calling it a 'game' made the situation seem less serious than it actually was. 

 

Tristan had stood to one side of a doorway as she noted the heavy crossbar playing sentinel by the entrance. Eyes forward, she entered the dim room. Was this grim little den where she was to meet her end? The ceiling was low, the walls felt close and Kyla had to struggle to contain the constricting feeling in her chest that threatened to overwhelm her. She had never set foot in a room so small before. She had closed her eyes briefly and taken in a deep breath through her nose, blowing it out slowly. It had taken her a moment to regain control. 

 

She thought of the living space she shared in her village with Calum, her Aunt Heather and Uncle Galanan, plus another family of five. They occupied a large round wattle and daub building comprising of just the one room. It had been her parents home too before they had died. There were still notches by the entrance where her father had documented her journey to the dizzying heights of five foot, five inches. Kyla had taken to continuing this tradition with Calum when he had come to live with them. He was taller now than she was at his age. It saddened her to realise she'd never know how tall he would grow to be. 

 

She had had a second to regain her composure before being coerced into turning to face her captor by the gentle pull on her restraints. She refused to look at the Scout, hoping to emanate the disdain she felt for him. However, a Sarmatian Knight walking purposefully towards you in a dark cell is hard to ignore, try as one might. Her pride kept her eyes locked forward, but the rest of her traitorous body had not complied with her wishes. Kyla had tensed in preparation as the Scout reached for her. Her breathing accelerated, her hands clenched to fists.

“Wait for it” she admonished herself. “Wait for it...”

Kyla had no definitive idea of what she was expecting him to do, but when he deftly loosened the knot by her waist and stepped quickly away again it served to surprise her once more. She couldn't make head nor tail of what he intended to do with her. Did he view her as a plaything? Was this some form of passive torture meant to lull her into a sense of security? Setting aside the latest wound and the exhaustive trek he had not done much else to harm her, ample though the opportunities had been since they'd first crossed paths. Kyla studied his movements through her peripheral vision as he had threaded her rope through metal rings set high upon one wall. Her rope. She found it amusing that in the midst of all of this that the damn inanimate piece of woven hemp had become like as extension of her own body.

 

She had felt the heavy weight of Tristan's eyes upon her after he had securely bound her against the wall. She could have turned to face him but she felt less exposed facing the wall. He had not moved for some moments but she was damned if she would look his way now. What reaction was he trying to get from her? If he wanted her attention he was out of luck, she kept her head as high as she could muster, stared resolutely at the wall and waited.

 

It was short moments before Dagonet and the healer had arrived. 

 

Kyla had struggled with a rising panic as the room had become more crowded, feeling even more confined by the second. The enclosed, suffocating feeling that had tried to overwhelm her early resurfaced and it took some effort for her to regain what little control she had. She wasn't sure if she was grateful for the sudden illumination the torch light threw about the cell, comforting as it was she had wondered if she really wanted to see in detail what was going to happen to her. 

 

Staring at the wall had not been an option any more, not when she was bound in a small room with three hoplessly intimidating men. Kyla had been ready for any number of possibilities, torture seeming the most probable, though to what end she still had no clue. As far as she had been concerned she was surrounded by enemies. Barbaric, plundering foreigners who needed no excuse to harm her or her people. So when the leather bundle that the third man had carried was unwrapped to display curious small pots, rolls of material and a water skin, and not the knives, blades and cutting implements she had presumed, she was left to wonder once more. 

 

When the healer had approached her with slow precise movements and communicated his intentions to her she had been wary and baffled. Her quick glance towards the Scout was typically not forthcoming in information. Her legs had not been bound so when push came to shove Kyla was prepared to let loose with every ounce of her depleted energy to kick and thrash and hurt those around her. She could not comprehend that this man was here to tend to her injuries. She wondered what possible purpose would it serve to heal her? The idea of slavery blossomed in her mind. Was that to be her lot? 

 

Kyla had held still and waited to see exactly what he would do, supervised by the hawk-eyed Scout. When she had shown no resistance he had got to work deftly on cleansing and rebinding her arm. 

 

The man appeared kindly and gentle, though his pock-marked features, thrown into stark contrast by the flickering flames, unsettled her at first. He looked almost apologetic when he caused her to react in pain but did not relent in his task. Kyla had watched his every movement intensely. He was clearly knowledgeable in the healing arts. She had only experienced similar care and attention from Torra, the beloved elder from her home village. Kyla had wondered, if the two healers had met in another time and place, what secrets and methods they would have to share with one another. A fanciful thought.

 

Once he had finished with her arm and had made motions towards her injured stomach, Kyla had blanched. It was much harder to bare her midriff to his capable hands. Turning to face the three men was difficult, making her feel additionally exposed. She would not willingly participate in anything that would harm her and the healer reaching to raise her tunic had been too much at first. If he had not taken such care to move slowly and sympathetically in response to her reactions she knew her frayed nerves would have broken. 

 

Kyla appreciated that he had worked fast. When he had reached towards her face, however, she instinctively moved it farther away. The anger and frustration she felt bubbled up inside her at the reminder of her latest wound and her eyes found those of the unperturbed Scout, nonchalantly leaning against the door frame. Watching her, always watching her.

 

To have them all finally leave felt like a blessing. When the young Knight, Galahad, had appeared laden down with food, and the healer had offered up his water skin, Kyla couldn't help but feel mistrustful. When Tristan had loudly closed the door and dragged her ever closer to the wooden barrier, only to finally release her wrists from their bindings, she felt additionally unsettled. Why was she still alive? Why had they patched her up instead of hurting her further? Her world was turned upside down with confusion and nothing made any sense.

 

Kyla felt the weight of the Scout's scrutiny even now, alone in a cell with the wafting smell of succulent meat floating about her. She was utterly exhausted, her eyes felt heavy, her body weak. She rallied herself and rose slowly to her feet, eyes still glued to the barricaded oaken door, and made her way cautiously towards temptation. A foot from the door, not daring to get too close, Kyla bent her knees and looked in the limited view of the small hatch for signs of persons on the other side. There were limits to what she could see, an expanse of pathway and the side wall of a military building, but currently no people. She stayed like that for some time, scrutinising the small window to the outside world, convinced at any moment that the door would be flung open. That there was some trap involved, but after a time the hunger got the better of her.

 

Kyla hurried to the where the bowl and water skin rested and scooped them up quickly before retreating to the cot. She paused once more, anticipating an interruption. When none arose she hastily brought the bowl to her lips. At the first taste of divine meat Kyla couldn't help but close her eyes, momentarily content. After savouring the first mouthful and noting the complimentary blend of herbs that infused the broth, Kyla made short work of finishing off the rest. Her eyes darted constantly towards the door but she was left blissfully undisturbed through the meal. The food sat heavily in her previously empty stomach but she felt much, much better and energised after eating her fill. She washed the whole thing down generously with water, after hesitantly sniffing the contents of the skin. If both had been laced with poison she was beyond caring.

 

Exhausted, but unable to keep still, Kyla got to her feet once more, pacing from one side of the small room to the other. She quickly examined her freshly bound injuries. Both had been done expertly and she was in no doubt that they would heal well. Her arm was a dull ache, but along her stomach the wound throbbed painfully, every movement causing a twinge across her abdomen, but it was entirely bearable. She examined her wrists, both circled in angry chafe marks like hideous ornaments. 

 

Irritated and confused, she continued to pace. Keeping her body moving reflected the furious inner workings of her mind as she assessed her situation once more. Going on the reactions of the other Sarmatian Knights it seemed like her appearance at the fort was unexpected. Which meant that Tristan had not gone out looking for a prisoner, nor was he in the habit of bringing one back. Kyla recalled what he had said to the fair haired Knight:

 

“She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked.”

 

So Kyla had the great misfortune to have crossed paths with the Scout, who had no business being anywhere in the vicinity of her village. Had he been heading there? Was he gleaning information for the Romans to formulate an attack? Calum should have long ago returned to the village to warn them. They would have to create a patrol and keep an eye on the wider area for further intrusions.

 

She still could not produce a viable explanation for why the Scout had not just killed her there and then. There was no love lost between Picts and Romans, regardless of Sarmatian lineage. Why go to the bother of dragging her to this gods forsaken fort? The implication of Tristan's intentions from the dark Knight, Lancelot, chilled her. Kyla had heard many tales of savage Roman attacks on lone Pict women they had encountered. 

 

She recalled one particularly horrific account from a neighbouring settlement. When they had finally located the missing teenager abandoned in the woods she had been so horrendously beaten and abused that she was moments away from death. Torra had been sent for to help attend the girl, and it was only her care, attention and knowledge combined with that of their local herb woman that got the girl through that long first night and eventually on the road to recovery, though she would never be able to bear children.

 

If Tristan's attentions were as nefarious, surely he'd had plenty of opportunities to have had his way with her by now. It didn't add up. 

 

Kyla's pondering was immediately interrupted when she caught sight of movement outside the door accompanied by hushed whispers. Two sets of brown eyes vied for dominance in the view finder that was the small hatch in the door. Kyla froze. From what little she could deduce they were Roman soldiers. 

 

“Would you?” one man asked the other. Kyla was glued to the spot, her hands clenched tight into fists, unable to stop the anger she felt coursing through her body. Both pairs of eyes where lit with amusement. Kyla felt like she was on display for their entertainment and it sickened her.

 

“Too right! I bet she'd squirm like a weasel in the sack.” came the reply, accompanied by deep laughter. 

 

Kyla snapped. With an angry growl she reached for the only weapon to hand, the flaming torch, releasing it from it's cradle and thrusting it swiftly towards the small opening. Her actions were greeted with angry shouts as the soldiers quickly retreated from their viewing station.

 

“That fucking bitch!”

 

“I'll teach that savage her fucking place”

 

“Here, leave it. She's the Sarmatian's prisoner, they're not known for sharing. Not worth your bollocks being strung up”

 

“Fine! Best hope they don't tire of you too soon, Woad scum.” 

 

The last was accompanied by a glob of spit sailing into the cell, landing unceramoniously on the floor at Kyla's feet. She gripped the torch tightly, breathing rapidly as she listened to the sounds of feet moving away from her cell. Was she to be subjected to this all night?

 

At least it seemed being detained by a Sarmatian Knight meant that the rest of the Roman infantry may give her a wider berth. So she only had to deal with a handful of the toughest and most fearsome men in the fort. That should be a comfort, right? 

 

Kyla eventually relaxed her stance once more, not physically able to keep her body on such high alert. Well, she speculated that if the soldiers couldn't see the interior of the cell they might be less inclined to come looking. Regrettably, but with determination, Kyla threw the torch to the ground, rolling it over in the dirt until it was completely extinguished. 

 

She took the few steps it took to get back to the cot, reached down and flipped it onto it's side, letting the hay and blanket fall to cover the small section of flooring she had uncovered in the process. 

 

Kyla grabbed the snuffed out torch once more, before clambering over her makeshift barrier. She redistributed the hay about her and threw the musty smelling blanket over her shoulders. Not comfortable with laying down outright, Kyla rested her shoulders against the stone wall, her legs bent slightly, hoping that it would be easier to get to her feet this way when they came for her once more. She gripped the wooden torch reassuringly with both hands. She was completely blocked from view of the door. Of course, that meant that she couldn't see the door either, but it was a small price to pay. She'd hear someone approach long before she would have seen them anyway. Kyla moved a little here and there trying to make the position less agitating to her wounds but was unsuccessful.

 

She really hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it seems her drained body gave her no options.


	12. Chapter 12

Tristan had finally shook off Dagonet, Galahad and the ever persistent Jols. He had eventually been persuaded to stand still long enough for Jols to poke and prod at his injuries, finally announcing that Tristan would live. The bandages were hardly necessary but Tristan had submitted to his administrations as the lesser evil.

 

Galahad had assured him that Saratos had been brushed, fed and watered. Dagonet tried to persuade Tristan that he could do with the same attention but the knight had had his fill of company and in no uncertain terms refused. He brusquely requested that Jols locate an interpreter so he could question the girl in the morning. The others knew a losing battle when they saw one and subsequently left him to his own devices.

 

Tristan wanted nothing more than to get back to his room and divest himself of the events of the day. When Lancelot called his name he was tempted to engage in some selective hearing. Tristan gazed longingly at the Knights dwelling which only moments before had seemed so close. He paused and turned towards his approaching brother. So close, and yet so far.

 

Lancelot jogged good naturedly to catch up with him. Tristan schooled himself to appear disinterested. 

 

“To bed already? Has that demon exhausted your considerable stamina so quickly? My, my Tris, I thought you were made of more than that!” Lancelot smirked, slowing to a walk as he reached his brother. Before Tristan could form a retort, Lancelot waved off his reply.

 

“Just wanted to let you know that Arthur said to report to him in the morning. He's very, very interested to hear what you have to say” he said, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively. Before Tristan could say anything, Lancelot clapped him amiably on the back.

 

“Do try to get some rest. You'll need your strength for round two. And remember, if you need any tips,” he stepped away and bowed theatrically, “my door is always open.” 

 

Lancelot grinned and quickly made his escape in the direction of the tavern, not giving his angered brother time to respond.

 

Tristan determinedly continued on to his room. Anyone who happened upon him over the short distance gave the dour knight a wide berth. This in itself was quite normal for Tristan, but this evening the denizens of the fort seemed to scuttle away faster than was usual.

 

Tristan was seething. To let Lancelot rile him up like this, it was unheard of! How was the juvenile baiting of his tiresome brother managing to get under his skin? The damned man was revelling in his reactions too. Tristan knew there would be more of the same if he didn't get his emotions in check quickly. He marched down the open walkway past rooms belonging to his fellow knights. When he reached his own personal space he slammed the door closed behind him, sealing out the rest of the world. If there had been someone around to witness it they would have been stunned by any emotive display from the man, let alone what amounted to an all out tantrum by his standards.

 

Tristan leaned his back against the solid door behind him and closed his eyes. He worked some moments on controlling his breathing, deep and slow until he felt grounded once more. Wearily he opened his eyes, grateful to finally notice that Jols had lit the brazier and lamps in his ordered room, keeping the cold and the dark at bay. Tristan wondered where the man found the time. 

 

He sluggishly pushed himself away from the door and headed towards the large floor-standing cross stationed near his bed. The irony of the two intersected pieces of wood also being the symbol for Arthur's 'God' was not lost on him. He had been raised in the beliefs of his own people, and though he did not actively pay tribute to those old world deities, he also did not hold faith with Arthur's 'Lord'. 

 

Tristan undid the buckle of his sword belt, placing the worn yet sturdy sheath carefully on his bed. Various other blades located on his person followed suit. With practised fingers he loosened the fastenings of his armoured jerkin, pulling it over his head, already feeling like he was shedding some of the day's tension in the process. Tristan draped the garment over the the waiting cross. He glanced over to the sister display that stood on the opposite side of the generous room. This one's service was already employed in supporting Tristan's full battle gear. The layered plates of leather and metal, the armoured gauntlets and shin guards. Crowning the display was the distinct winged helmet emblematic of his tribe. They were some of the only items he had retained from his journey across the empire, gifted to him by his village on the day he left in anticipation of the warrior he would grow to be. 

 

Tristan liberated himself of the his woven tunic, being careful not to disturb his bandages, and sat heavily on his bed to be rid of his footwear. His tunic and breeches would need a good scrub to get rid of the blood, and a couple of stitches to mend them. 

 

Habitually he reached for his sword sheath and released the blade from it's home. His father's sword was a thing of great beauty. Simple and devastatingly effective in it's curved design. It was exquisitely balanced so it sat comfortably in his hands. Tristan watched the light from the oil lamps slide lazily across it's mirrored surface as he rotated it slightly between his fingers. He had been somewhat luckier than a number of his brothers fifteen years ago, his village had been forewarned of the Romans' approach. 

 

The night before Tristan left home his mother had prepared his favourite meal of stewed beef. She had thought her glances towards the entrance of their dwelling were inconspicuous but Tristan knew she was hoping his father would appear back in time to join them. Resignedly they ate alone in silence and it was late into the night when he finally lay himself down to sleep. The fires had gone cold by the time Tristan was shaken to consciousness by the dark figure looming over his bed. Tristan could smell the alcohol that infused the air around the large man who didn't appear to be looking in his direction. A bundled package was thrust clumsily into his arms. 

 

“Keep her sharp, boy”. The words were rumbled and only slightly slurred. Tristan felt the large callused hand of his father gently cradle the side of his face and in the dark their eyes finally met. He still doubted his own memory of unshed tears glistening in the chilled room. The moment didn't last as his father rose unsteadily to stumble over to his own sleeping platform where his patient wife slumbered on oblivious. Tristan's reminiscence was cut short, his heart skipping a beat as he saw his fathers troubled brown eyes looking back at him from the depths of the silvery blade.

 

It took him only a second to comprehend that it was his own reflection he was seeing thrown back at him. Tristan wasn't a vain man. He did not invest much in personal grooming and was not in the habit of checking his appearance. It surprised him to realise how he had grown into some resemblance of his father. The thought that he could become like the man made his blood run cold. He had never been violent towards Tristan or his mother, he had provided for them and Tristan supposed he had shown his love for them in the only way that he could. There was no real affection or warmth in Tristan's memory of him. The man had spiralled into a darkness that only the fleeting solace of inebriation seemed to lift.

 

Tristan tore his gaze from the blade, his mind even more troubled than before. In an attempt to create a semblance of normality he removed the whetstone from his bedside table and began methodically sharpening his blades. The routine brought some peace to his mind and when he was done he arranged the swords and knives neatly into place upon their brackets on the wall. 

 

With no more possible distractions to occupy him Tristan finally snuffed out the flames of the lamps and returned to his bed. He did not feel like getting beneath the covers that night and instead opted to lie upon the bedding. Interlacing his fingers, he placed them beneath his weary head and lay on his back, but he could not convince himself to close his eyes just yet.

 

Thoughts of the wildling girl which had danced patiently on the edge of his mind now demanded his attention. He sincerely wished he had never brought her to the fort. His feeling were so utterly conflicting he was unsure if it was possible to untangle them all. He figured going right back to the beginning was a place to start. 

 

He should have killed her there and then. It would have saved him his current strife, but then, upon discovering her body the Woads would be alerted to the fact the Romans were scouting the area. He considered that he could have taken her farther away and found a suitably obscure place to leave her to die, but that would have increased the risk of crossing paths with others and he had been running out of daylight. Tristan toyed with other possibilities, but a little shadowy part of him knew that if he could go back to that very point, that moment she had closed her sharp eyes and surrendered to his blade, the outcome would have been the same, every time. 

 

The thoughts of letting her go had not even occurred to him. Tristan believed in being honest, at the very least, with himself. He began to question his own motives. The hungry look in the eyes of the soldiers at the small fort as they settled upon his prisoner was enough to illicit feelings of protection, of responsibility, within him. He had brought the lamb amongst the wolves and he had not been willing to leave her behind. Tristan's nature was hard, but not cruel. He knew full well the appetites of men.

 

It was only when those closest to him had come into contact with the Pict that his thoughts had turned darker. Picturing her in Lancelot's arms, or under the administrations of Jols clinical hands stirred a brewing anger in him that disturbed him immensely. It felt...territorial. If Tristan wanted something he would go out and get it, or just take it. Had he taken her? Did he want her? 

 

The thoughts of forcing himself upon a woman was abhorrent to Tristan. She had certainly been put through her paces that day, and he had left her in a cell exhausted and in pain, though he suspected she was not yet defeated. There was no attraction in the act of beating someone down and forcibly taking what was not offered freely. 

 

Tristan's mind drifted to the woman as he had first encountered her, all furious energy and righteous anger. Alive and sparkling, resourceful and intelligent. Tristan couldn't help the immediate reaction his body had at the thought of such a woman willingly directing the same energies into more carnal activities. He admonished himself for such thoughts. The fact that she was his prisoner, not the knowledge she was a Woad, was what he found distasteful in the direction his musings had taken. 

 

Tristan could admit that this somewhat revelation to himself was why Lancelot's teasing had managed to get to him. Perhaps he'd gone too long without release and that was the cause of his lustful thoughts. Of course, the opposite could be said of Lancelot. Tristan could not find the energy nor the inclination to head out again that night, if he did he could have spent some of his frustration by bedding one of the fort whores. They were always happy to part the Knights from their coins.

 

Tristan absent-mindedly rubbed his beard before brushing his hair back off his forehead in a tangle of knots and braids. He finally closed his eyes, setting his mind to order once more. He pushed aside how he would have to explain bringing back a Woad woman, one who was strategically useless. In the morning he would question her, find out what she knew about the attacks on the Wall. If there was a village near where he had encountered her it stood to reason that the attacks stemmed from there. The growing frequency of the attacks gave an air that something was brewing North of the Wall. Like their defences were being put to the test. Would she talk, and if so what then? He would have to defer to Arthur's good judgement on what was to be done with her. He felt some of the burden lifted from him, knowing that her fate would be out of his hands, whilst refusing to dwell on what that future may hold. 

For now, at least, she was safe in the cell.   
No one was suicidal enough to interfere with a Sarmatian prisoner.


	13. Chapter 13

Tristan's dreams were soaked in blood. Glorious crimson death, pain, and a pair of green eyes that were slowly leached of all signs of life. As bleary consciousness returned to him the visions that had disturbed his sleep began to immediately fade. He sat up wearily and threw his legs over the side of his bed, scrubbing at his eyes to coax some semblance of alertness into them. He didn't feel well rested and made his way to the shuttered window to get some idea of the time.

 

Dawn was breaking over the fort and there was a stillness in the air that would soon be disturbed by the hustle and bustle of the busy stronghold. Tristan longed to be heading out on patrol again, carrying all he needed upon his back and in his saddlebags. He enjoyed the company of his brothers, and tolerated being surrounded by the rest of the townsfolk, but he felt most at home immersed in the landscape by himself. He could only stand being cooped up behind the mighty walls for so long before the urge to head out came upon him once more. At the very least he was due a trek to the nearby river for a thorough cleanse. The idea was appealing, there was a crispness in the air that foretold the imminent turn in the weather and the cold clear waters would have shocked him awake in no time. However, knowing he had more important tasks at hand, he made due with the wash basin and water he kept in his room, splashing the liquid liberally over his face in an attempt at alertness, letting the water drench his beard and drip from his chin.

 

Dressing quickly and opting to carry a single blade on his person, he settled his cloak about his shoulders and left the room in search of sustenance. His feet took him automatically in the direction of the tavern and he hoped that someone would be there early whom he could source food from. The town was slowly coming alive around him but not many people had yet taken to the streets. The tavern looked deserted but a tell tale lazy stream of smoke reaching up from the kitchen told him at least one person was there. He rapped loudly on the door and was greeted by a confused and slightly intimidated looking boy, arms covered to the elbow in flour. 

 

Tristan didn't reckon it was one of Bors brood, but then he'd lost track of them around number five. The Knights were generally refused nothing and Tristan was amused by the boy's eagerness to gather up a few of the flat breads he had just finished baking, along with an apple and a carrot for the stern Knight. Tristan tossed him a coin that more than paid for the paltry sum of food he had requested, to the boy's obvious delight. Leaving the tavern he made his way slowly over towards the stables, stashing the bread into a sizeable pouch hanging from his belt, the sweet red apple taking the edge off his hunger. No sooner had he set foot into the spacious barn than a large dappled equine head appear from a stall near the back and a loud whinny was raised in greeting. 

 

Few things brought a smile to Tristan's face but the bossy, attention-seeking horse was one of them. Saratos shook out his mane impatiently and gave another low snicker. The moment he was within reach the horse stretched out his neck and set to sniffing at Tristan's body purposefully, lips and teeth pulling at his clothing, searching for the treat he was expecting to find. Tristan gave a low chuckle and scratched the beast between his ears, producing the carrot he had hidden within his shirt, careful not to loose a finger as Saratos snatched it from his hand. As Tristan lavished the horse with attention he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. He had to go question the girl and to do so he needed the interpretor that he had asked Jols to arrange. Giving the horse one final pat on the neck he made his way out of the stable again. He sourced a rope upon his exit, looping it up one arm to rest on his shoulder, his mood soured once more. 

 

When Tristan reached Jols's room he was unsurprised to find the man already awake and dressed. 

 

'Tristan', he said, clearly expecting the early visitor. 'You're heading to interrogate the girl now?' 

 

Tristan returned the brief greeting with a quick nod of his head. 'Did you find someone who speaks Woad?'

 

'Yes, I asked about last night in the tavern. Met a guy from Rome, not been here long, name of Cassius. He said he'd be free this morning to assist you. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll gather my things and fetch him. Do you need anything else?' Jols asked, unhooking his cloak from the the back of his door and draping it about his shoulders.

 

Tristan had given some thought as to how the Pict would be best restrained for questioning. He didn't trust her not to resist at some point and the the iron rings on the wall would have kept her hands occupied but there was too much scope for her to get creative with her legs.

 

'A chair. No point in moving her, bring it to the holding cell'

 

'I'll see you there.' Jols replied, closing the door behind him and heading away briskly to complete his task.

 

Running out of reasons to dally any longer, Tristan squared his shoulders and started towards the barracks. He began to wonder how the Wildling had faired in the night. Had she been comfortable? Did she warm enough and manage to get any rest? How were her wounds? Tristan shook his head sharply to dislodge the concerns from his mind. She was a damned prisoner, what matter to him if she had or had not eaten the stew that Galahad had brought. What matter to him if she had noted Galahad's act of kindness and whether she would look favourably upon the fact he had intentions of leaving her some bread.

 

The holding cell was as he had left it the previous evening, heavy barrier still in it's cradle. Not that he had expected anything different. With no hesitation he hefted the rope upon his shoulder so it sat more securely before releasing the crossbar and depositing it upon the ground. He was alert to what would greet him as he opened the door but had not expected the absence of the Woad. This surprise was but momentary as she rose stiffly from behind the cot she had upturned as a shield, an un-lit torch clutched in a death grip between her hands as a thin blanket fell from around her shoulders. 

 

Tristan did not advance immediately, no longer surprised by her resourcefulness, a certain part of him lighting up once more with respect whilst simultaneously becoming agitated with the scene. From the doorway he ran his critical eye over her. The Pict was dishevelled and grim. He imagined she hadn't meant to fall asleep, and the pain she tried to keep from her face was a mixture of her irritated wounds and her hurt pride. By the Gods she was calm though. Determined.

 

Tristan let the rope slip from his shoulder into his waiting palm. He uncoiled a length of it with his free hand, leaving a couple of feet of slack to rest between his grip. Her eyes didn't glance down to watch the movement, they never left his face. The woman was backlit by the slivers of morning light creeping through the windows, her dishevelled mane of curling dark hair haloed in red. Tristan's external façade didn't flicker, but his emotions were roiling. His heart rate had picked up a pace, his body coursing with anticipated energy at the impending contact. His thoughts were conflicted, tossing between annoyance, respect, frustration and relief. Layered beneath it all were lusty stirrings immediately quelled with revulsion. 

 

His usual tactic was to let his enemy come to him but, knowing she wouldn't make the first move, he stepped forward into the range of her makeshift weapon. He gave her no option but to go immediately on the offence from behind the overturned cot. She swung the torch sharply aiming first for his head, then immediately for his right knee, both of which he deflected by pulling the rope taut between his hands and shielding the blows. Tristan felt the force behind the moves thrum upon the line, noting that her rest had served her well.

 

The Wildling was relentless. She hailed down hit after hit, moving fast but gaining no purchase against the superior warrior. Tristan's patience served him well as the girl finally made her one mistake and that was all he needed. As she overcompensated her balance briefly she was distracted for the split second that it took Tristan to wind the length of rope around the end of the torch, capturing it as he pulled the line tight, using her tool against her. Tristan pulled roughly on the rope to disarm her, but damned if the woman wouldn't relinquish her grasp. He yanked her clean across the overturned cot. 

 

Momentum carried her to the ground, her body twisting towards Tristan as she grimly held on to the torch connecting them, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, the wind knocked momentarily from her lungs. Tristan moved quickly, taking advantage of the situation, tearing the torch from her possession, freeing his hand immediately to grip her left wrist. He simultaneously twisted her arm behind her back whilst using his knee to force her onto her stomach. She panted hard beneath him and he assumed the small groan she couldn't hold back was due to her injured stomach being ground into the hard floor. He could break her arm easily in this position, and she knew it well.

'Tristan!' Jols had appeared in the doorway, heavily dropping the chair he had brought at the entrance before quickly coming to Tristan's assistance. Straddling her thighs Tristan dropped the rope and securely captured her other wrist, bringing the two side by side at the small of her back. 

'Tie her wrists', he commanded Jols, who deftly completed the task. Once bound he grabbed a handful of her raucous curling hair tight at the scalp and directed her upright off the ground to her accompanying hiss. She raised up to the balls of her feet trying to relieve the pain his grip evoked. 

'The chair' he instructed Jols. Once the chair was positioned centrally in the room he guided the subdued woman to sit. In the blink of an eye she had switched the rebellion off, perhaps conserving her energy once again. She sat passively as Tristan threaded the rope between the legs of the chair to Jols who seemed prepared for her to retaliate at any given moment as he wrapped it first around one, then the other ankle while the Knight kept a controlling grip on her dark mane.

There was a sharp rap on the open door, announcing the presence of the Roman soldier.

 

'Thank you for coming. Tristan, this is Cassius' Jols said, rising to his feet and reaching out to shake the soldiers hand. Tristan released his hold on the secured Pict, and nodded his head minutely in greeting. The woman reacted by coldly moving her now unrestricted head away from his reach. 

 

“Tristan” Cassius acknowledged cordially. 

 

“If I'm not needed...?”, Jols asked. Tristan thanked and dismissed him, leaving him and Cassius to unravel the mystery that was the Woad.

 

Tristan had had very little dealings with the man before today. He recalled what he knew of the soldier and came up lacking. He was aware that Cassius had arrived from Rome roughly a year before and other than some small talk of his dubious honour in games of chance and his popularity with the ladies there was nothing more that came to mind. The same description could well be applied to many of his brothers. Tristan assessed him as he did any other man, weighing up how they might do in battle. He seemed muscular and lithe, probably not a bad person to have fighting at your side.

 

“You speak their tongue” Tristan stated more than asked, looking towards the girl, dismissing immediately the fluttering thought of what it would be like to converse with her directly. 

 

“Yes, unfortunately, horrible guttural language that it is. A by-product of breaking in Woad slaves back in Rome. They're a fairly ignorant people, don't take to Latin very quickly.” Cassius answered, his voice marking him as coming from an educated background. Tristan noted that though his words were harsh, he looked upon the Woad with interest. She in turn was watching them like one would watch two snakes, waiting to see if they would attack or leave you alone. 

 

“There has been an increase in Woad attacks on patrols West of here. Find out what she knows” Tristan addressed Cassius, but he was still looking at the girl. If he had not he might have missed the barest wrinkle appearing between her arched eyebrows as she stared coldly back at him. Tristan had no time to digest the look before Cassius began to address her, diverting her attention back to him.

To Tristan's untrained ear it sounded like Cassius was fairly fluent in the native language. It wasn't often that Tristan spoke the words of his motherland, he even thought and dreamt in Latin. He was in the habit of speaking to Saratos and Tamura in the soothing tones of his tribal dialect. The Knights usually reverted to Sarmatian only when they didn't want their conversations overheard, generally in jest towards their Roman counterparts. Particularly colourful curse words, however, were littered throughout their everyday vocabulary. 

 

The Pict did not seem surprised when the Roman began addressing her in her own language. Nor did she respond other than to stare coolly back at Cassius. A sudden urge overcame Tristan.

 

“Ask her what her name is” he directed the interpretor who appeared to convey the question to the her. She locked eyes with Tristan and gave the barest shake of her head. No, she would not surrender her name to him. The negative response only galled Tristan into wanting to possess the knowledge even more. 

 

Tristan noticed the Woad's eyes dart to the door an instant before Lancelot cleared his throat.

 

“Am I interrupting?” he drawled. When his only reply was a stony silence from Tristan he continued, “Arthur sent me. He wants you to debrief now.”

 

“Can it wait?” Tristan asked, masking his irritated. Duty warring briefly with his desire to finally learn more about the woman.

 

“Apparently not. He's keen to hear about what you deduced on patrol and, of course,” Lancelot threw a smouldering look towards the Pict, “the newest addition to the holding cells. Best not to keep him waiting” Lancelot warned, arching one dark brow before departing. 

 

Tristan had disliked the way Lancelot glanced at the girl but chose not to dissect why. He had put off reporting to Arthur, reasoning in his own mind that his statement would be more conclusive after having interrogated his prisoner. Tristan fixed her with a stare, he imagined delving into her unconscious and plucking her name right out of her head. Her guarded eyes flicked briefly to Cassius and back to him. Tristan noted her shift in focus and something in the back of his mind tried to puzzle it together with the fleeting expression he had noticed on her earlier.

 

“Keep questioning her, I'll not be long.”


	14. Chapter 14

 

Kyla came awake with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. Her foggy brain supplied that the groaning of a heavy door was what had woken her. Sleep. She had _fallen asleep_. She cursed herself for a horses ass. Her body was in the same position she had placed herself in the night before, with a nice view of the overturned cot and her hands still wrapped around the snuffed out torch. There was light pouring in from beyond her barrier, someone had come for her. She was damned if she wasn't going to meet her fate head on. She forced her stiff body to stand, her limbs protesting from hard use followed by hours of cramped inaction. Adding to her general discomfort was the full bladder that was vying for her attention.

 

 

Tristan. Of course.

 

 

The Knight stood just inside the door, his large body blocking out some of the natural light. Watching. Calculating. Measuring her up from behind his fall of matted hair. She met his weighty gaze and gave him nothing back.

 

 

 _'You have no power over me, Sarmatian. If I am to die it will be on my terms',_ she thought, her hands tightening on the torch. She had a weapon and the free use of her limbs, which was a whole lot more than she had had the previous night, things were looking positively sunny. _'Come and get me, you bastard.'_

 

 

She saw him drop the rope from his shoulder, his demeanour unfazed. Would she ever catch him unawares? Would she ever have another opportunity to try?

 

 

He came to the cot without hesitation, right within her reach. She responded to the invitation with an attempt to knock his head clean from his shoulders. Clever Sarmatian, he used the rope to block her. Kyla's abused body was blessedly following her commands and she didn't let up with her rain of blows, searching for any weakness. They had already settled the debate on which of them was the better fighter, and she was lacking. If she could just do some damage on her way out, if she could just goad him into granting her a quick death. If she could. If she could.

 

 

The torch bounced back a little too sprightly from her last blow, causing her to overcompensate her stance, and that was all it took. Damn it, he was fast. She watched as he caught the end of the torch in a loop of rope and pulled, quicker than she could react. She was not prepared to let go however.

 

 

The cot knocked painfully on her shins as she was launched over the barricade with naught to catch her fall but the cold stone floor. Kyla just about managed to turn her body so the she landed on her side, pain shocking through her body upon impact and loosening the grip she had thus far successfully kept onto the torch. Gone, ripped from her hands as she readjusted. A hard clamp came down upon her wrist, adding to the pain from the previous days ministrations, twisting painfully until it was behind her back to the point of breaking. Her body screamed in protest at being trapped, at the weight on her back holding her to the floor. Pain flared from too many points to count and Kyla could not control the groan that eased out of her mouth.

 

 

As if the odds had not been great enough against her, she heard the call of another man from the direction of the door accompanied by a loud thud. The weight of the Knight settled evenly upon her thighs as he kept her immobile, grabbing her other wrist as she gritted her teeth through the pressure shooting up her arm that prevented her from retaliating. Her chaffed wrists were once again bound, as if the ropes where settling once more into the home they had gouged out of her skin the previous day. The burden upon her thighs was lifted at Tristan rose, but was replaced by the sharp, stinging pain on her scalp as her hair was used as leverage to get her to her feet. She had no option but to rise, the pain drowning out all of her other aches as she attempted to relieve some of the pressure by going on her tiptoes.

 

 

The man taking direction from Tristan turned out to be the healer from the night before. He placed a chair in the centre of the room and Tristan proceeded to direct her into sitting upon it, through the manipulation of his hold upon her. Through the fog of pain Kyla deduced that things couldn't be too dire if she was not leaving the cell yet and the healer was present. He had seemed the most kindly of those she had encountered at the blasted fort.

 

 

More importantly, she was not dead yet. Ample though the chances had been to end her life.

 

 

Perhaps now was the time to take stock of the situation and wait to see what their next move was.

 

 

Kyla's scalp still tingled painfully from where the Knight had roughly taken hold of her hair, but she had urged herself to sit passively as both he and the healer secured her to the chair. Her successful detainment coincided with the appearance of a Roman soldier. Not a Sarmatian Knight, just a regular Briton-Killing-Land-Stealing Roman. Kyla tried to remain unruffled by the new addition. He was well built, dark of hair with golden skin. His handsome face was marred by the sparkle of his blue eyes as they swept over her. Kyla successfully repressed a shiver.

 

 

Clearly he was unknown to the Knight, the healer having to introduce the two. The situation was not helped by his immediate departure. Kyla wondered at her feelings of dismay caused by his absence. She reminded herself that she had no friends within these walls. The reason for the Roman's presence became apparent upon Tristan's challenge of whether he spoke the native language or not. _'Their'_ language, _her_ language.

 

 

As this ' _Cassius_ ' explained how he had knowledge of her tongue Kyla fought to keep her face clear of the revulsion she felt. She was more than aware of Tristan's hulking presence watching her intently. She despised the term _'Woad',_ and hated to hear it comfortably sliding out of this strangers mouth as if he could just as easily be referring to a dog. Only one other word sounded worse in his charming monologue.

 

_Slaves._

 

 

 _'It's true then_ ', Kyla's stomach dropped at the thought.

 

 

So the Romans had stolen her people away to their far off lands over the sea to a life of servitude. There had been rumours, of course, but there was no way to substantiate the truth. Those who 'disappeared' were never heard from again. Those who purposefully left the motherland to travel abroad took months to return, sometimes years, and not many had ventured into Roman territory. Kyla was aware of the few Roman estates North of the wall, but those who chose to live in the shadows of their high walls for the benefits they thought it bestowed were free to leave as they wished, though they were ruled with an iron fist.

 

 

Was this the purpose of her capture? Was she to bend to another's will? She'd rather die, thank you very much.

 

 

She stared at Cassius, wishing her looks could kill.

 

 

Her attention reverted to Tristan as he spoke in his short, brusque manner.

 

 

“There has been an increase in Woad attacks on patrols West of here. Find out what she knows”

 

 

He spoke to the Roman, but his eyes stayed on hers. Her _Woad_ eyes. Kyla was taken aback. Attacks on Roman patrols? She knew nothing about any organised attacks. There had been no directives to pursue such strategies. Not in her village at any rate.

 

 

“ **Woad, _we have some questions for you.”_** he stated smoothly, his Pictish flavoured with an accent but entirely competent, it was bizarre to Kyla's ears. **“ _This will go easier on you if you answer them promptly, honestly and in a detailed fashion. What do you know of the attacks on our most glorious Roman patrols stationed West of this fort?”_**

 

 

Kyla just stared at him with disdain. 'Most glorious Roman patrols', it was beyond belief. No one had been ordered to attack the section of the Wall that was closest to her village. There were attacks elsewhere, yes. There had always been raids testing the strength of the Wall here and there, sourcing spots where it was easiest to cross over. No word had come down from Merlin or the other tribal leaders to begin such tactics stemming from the hamlet she called home. Unless...no, it wasn't possible.

 

 

Taran and Drest. Those pigheaded friends of hers had become more vocal in their descent towards the occupying Romans since they had returned this Summer from a trading excursion to the Highlands. They had spoken more frequently and passionately about the lack of direct action taken against the foreigners. Kyla had put it down to them trying to act like 'big, hard men'. It occurred to her that there had been a turning point not so long ago where they had seemingly overcome their growing frustration. Kyla had noted it at the time, but thought it was due to them finally sprouting some sense between their ears. Their frequent disappearances were starting to look suspicious in hindsight. Kyla worked hard at masking her discordant thoughts with a cool stare she hoped gave nothing away.

 

 

“Ask her what her name is”

 

 

The command had come from Tristan, and though she waited for the Roman to reiterate the question, her answer was for him alone. She waited a moment, waited until she was sure that she had his undivided attention. She channelled all her of her dignity and pride into the smallest shake of her head,

 

 

_'No. You can not have that. You may have my body, you may have my very life, but I will not give you my name. You do not deserve to have it upon your lips. It is mine. How dare you even ask'_

 

 

She momentarily forgot about the other person present. They were locked in a communication that surpassed words. His scrutiny was as intense as ever and Kyla only broke the link when her peripheral vision caught the movement at the door.

 

 

The dark Knight, Lancelot. This was not an improvement.

 

 

“Am I interrupting?”he spoke in a suggestive manner that did not appeal to Kyla in the slightest. “Arthur sent me. He wants you to debrief now.”

 

 

Arthur. Arthur was here. If the Sarmatian Knights were famed amongst the Pictish people, Arthur was held in even greater esteem, or was that infamy? His fighting prowess was legendary, a foe to be truly feared. Having faced some of the Sarmatian Knights, Kyla shuddered to think how fearsome the man who lead them must be.

 

 

“Can it wait?” Tristan asked.

 

 

“Apparently not. He's keen to hear about what you deduced on patrol and, of course, the newest addition to the holding cells.” Lancelot replied, his oily look in Kyla's direction making her wish she had successfully gutted him the previous day. He was one to watch out for, if she was around that long.

 

 

“Best not to keep him waiting”

 

 

Lancelot's parting shot brought clarification to Kyla. Tristan was leaving. He was leaving and she would be alone with the Roman. He stared at her for a moment, nothing of his thoughts decipherable to her.

 

 

“Keep questioning her, I'll not be long.”

 

 

She watched Tristan head for the door with trepidation. This Roman was unknown to her and though Tristan was by far the more intimidating of the two, at least she was beginning to understand something of where she stood with him. The Roman's eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door as it shut behind the Sarmatian, an unkind look upon his face, before swinging around to drink Kyla in. His well proportioned body became instantly more relaxed in the dimmer room as he leaned his shoulder against the closest wall and hooked his thumbs through his sword belt. Kyla's body had the exact opposite reaction, tensing up as her blood ran cold.

 

 

“ _ **Just you and me then**_ ”,Cassius smirked. His mood soured a little as he glanced briefly at the door. “ _ **For awhile, anyway, but that should be enough**_ ”

 

He pushed off from the wall, beginning to slowly circle her, forcing her to turn her head to keep him in her sights. Kyla knew. She knew.

This was not going to end well.

 

 

“ _ **You bastards think you can attack us and get away with it? You think there are no consequences to your pathetic attempts at rebellion?**_ ” Kyla lost sight of him briefly as he languidly passed behind her, whipping her head around so as to not lose sight of the male who had begun to exude a malevolence he had not shown in front of the Knights. All the while he had that smug look upon his face, like the fox who had caught the vole. Kyla's eyes flickered towards the door. For what? For the reappearance of a _different_ dangerous man, a man who had hurt her repeatedly, a man who had forced her into submission time and again? Was that a better alternative? As it happened Kyla was beginning to think it was. In a sudden moment of clarity it occurred to her that Tristan's actions were all in retaliation to Kyla's own actions. Did he hurt her any more than was strictly necessary to keep the upper hand? No. Did that justify him forcibly kidnapping her? Certainly not, but she had some idea of what to expect from him. Better the demon you know.

 

 

“ _ **No, no. Not to worry. We'll not be interrupted for some time.**_ ” Cassius demanded her attention once again, eyes holding a warmth to them that Kyla refused to acknowledge.

“ _ **Shall we begin again? Who is leading the attacks on the Wall to the West?**_ ”

 

 

Fuck him, he'd get nothing from her, not that she knew anything for a certainty in the first place. Kyla stared stonily ahead, refusing to look at the Roman who continued his orbit around her anchored position.

 

 

“ _ **You may want to start talking soon. I'm not a very patient man. Who ordered the attacks?**_ ”

 

 

When his question was answered with more silence he continued, “ _ **Shall we try something a little easier then? Where are you based?**_ _”_

 

_._

No. Kyla was not inclined to share that information. For the love of the God and Goddess, she had surrendered to her fate to protect her village and Callum. She would not hand them over to the enemy now. Kyla steeled her resolve not to open her mouth.

 

 

“ _ **Do you savages even have dwellings? I suppose you must. How close to the Wall do you live?**_ ”

 

 

Nothing.

 

 

“ _ **How many of you are there?**_ ”

 

 

Silence.

 

 

Cassius stood before Kyla and folded his arms with a smirk, her reticence doing nothing to irritate him.

 

 

“ _ **Oh, I'm going to have fun breaking you.**_ ” he said quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

“ _ **Oh, I'm going to have fun breaking you.**_ ” he said quietly.

 

 

He continued his slow circling prowl around her. His languid prowl completely at ease now. Clearly he was in his element in familiar territory.

 

 

“ _ **Still not feeling chatty?**_ ”

 

 

Kyla defiantly raised her chin, keeping her eyes forward. Her ears strained past the sound of the slight acceleration in her breathing as Cassius's footsteps paused behind her. She refused to look, refused to take the bait.

 

 

Nothing was said. There was no movement from behind her, her body itched with the need to look to see what he was doing but she fought against the urge. All too soon his presence was accounted for as she felt a caress on the back of her head.

 

 

Kyla's resolve broke. She couldn't possibly hold still when he was touching her and she moved her head forward out of his reach, to no avail. Once more her flowing mane was used against her as Cassius painfully tightened his hold on her hair. Her head was locked in place by the excruciating snare, adrenaline scorching through her veins, her breath leaving her in a hiss. If she survived what was to come she was going to consider chopping all of her locks off to be damned.

 

 

Cassius's body connected with her bare arms as he closed the distance behind her. The rough leather of his skirted tunic separating their flesh and causing her to shiver. Tilting her head back and to one side, he brought his face close to hers.

 

 

“ _ **We have ways and means to make you talk,**_ **Woad** ” he growled quietly in her ear, tugging even harder on her hair for emphasis, drawing a pained exclamation from her lips. Cassius's right hand crept spider-like over her shoulder, crawling along slowly and coming to rest snugly around her throat. He squeezed slowly on her windpipe. Taking his time, exerting his control upon her.

 

 

“ _ **I'll find your weaknesses. I'll find what you can't bear...and I'll destroy you.**_ ” he continued conversationally in low tones, squeezing even tighter as Kyla struggled to take a full breath, her body beginning to twitch in panic. He had her held in place though, with no room to squirm, her ankles and wrists becoming raw once more as she resisted her restraints. She needed air, she needed...air. She couldn't breathe. Just right at the moment it became too much, when her vision became tinged with grey, he released the grasp on her throat. Kyla took in huge draughts of air, her lungs greedily filling once more. He didn't relinquish his hold on her hair as he gave her a moment to readjust.

 

“ _ **Who's behind the attacks on the Wall to the West?**_ ”, Cassius continued once her breathing had returned to some semblance of normality.

 

 

Kyla was not built to withstand torture. She knew this deep within her core, a truth she could acknowledge and accept. She was no warrior. She had a feeling where her limits might lie and did not care to test the boundaries of her stamina nor prolong her suffering. Her only weapon was a sharp tongue to goad him into killing her quick. She may be able to hang on long enough for that.

 

“ _ **Fuck...You**_ ” Kyla bit out through gritted teeth. Ready, and yet unprepared, for the retaliation.

 

 

“ _ **Tut tut. You'll give me ideas.”**_ Cassius purred.

“ _**There are so many different ways to inflict pain upon a person.**_ ” Cassius let his right hand drift down over Kyla's collarbone, slowly inching towards the neckline of her tunic.

“ _ **A woman though, even a low-life mongrel whore like yourself...oh, there are so many effective ways to hurt a woman.**_ ”

 

 

Kyla shuddered. Her eyes blurred with tears as Cassius's hand plunged beneath her top to roughly grab at her breast, squeezing it painfully, kneading it cruely. She struggled harder. Resolve or no, she could not sit unresponsive to his actions.

 

 

“ _ **Ways to haunt her for the rest of her days**_.”

 

 

He took her nipple between his calloused fingers and twisted hard, causing Kyla to cry out in anguish. She hated that he had torn the sound from her throat. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Cassius leaned into her closer, pressing the full weight of his hard body against her bound arms.

 

 

 

“ _ **It's been too long since I got my dick wet on wildling snatch**_ ” he breathed in her ear, removing his hand from her her top and reaching down to roughly grab at her core over her leggings. His fingers dug painfully into her, trying to push their way inside past the barricade of cloth as she tried and failed to bring her thighs together. Kyla's anger was overwhelming, all-consuming. To be so violated and yet feel so utterly helpless. When she had been first captured by Tristan she had not lingered on thoughts that this was to be her fate, and yet as time had drawn on she had come to hope that she would not suffer in this way before she died. For it to happen now seemed to make what was happening even more devastating. She trashed under his grasp, attempting to rip her hair from her head to set it free, realising the futility of calling out but not being able to stop the whimpers that escaped her in misery. The situation was hopeless.

 

 

Cassius removed his hand abruptly, returning it to encircle her throat.

 

 

“ _**I think we've discovered your voice,**_ **Woad**.” he said with self satisfaction, before slowly running his tongue up the side of her face, to her her utter loathing. “ _ **Will you sing sweetly for me now? Did you know that we have lost five good men to your pitiful attacks in the last month?**_ ” he snarled, the jerking grip on her hair punctuating the statement, the placating tones abandoned.

 

 

Kyla couldn't help the grimace that was part smile that passed her lips. “ _ **Five...less...Roman**_ **dogs** _ **to worry about**_ ” she bit out.

 

 

Cassius was like a thunder storm suddenly before her, a cold and calculating, unstoppable force of nature. The almighty slap she received in response probably hadn't been worth it, but for one second Kyla had felt like she had the higher ground. As her face exploded in pain, she slammed her eyes shut trying to block it out. This, she needed more of this, she needed him angry and lashing out. It would end sooner this way.

 

 

Cassius hands slammed his hands down on her thighs as he leaned right into her face.

 

 

“ _**My fair cousin was one of those Roman 'dogs', whore. He was a fucking degenerate and waste of good armour but he deserved a better death than at the hands of you scum dwelling pieces of heathen shit.**_ _”_ he snarled lowly, so close she could see the darker flecks in his blue, blue eyes.

 

 

Kyla moved her head back as far as she could from the vile soldier and his breath that was too hot on her face, then slammed her forehead with as much force as she could muster right into the bastards nose, just like Taran had taught her.

 

 

Cassius howled in pain, jumping back and grabbing his busted visage, blood pouring through his fingers.

 

 

“You fucking bitch. You fucking BITCH!” he roared, reverting back to Latin.

 

 

This time Cassius backhanded Kyla with such force that the momentum threw her weight to one side, rocking the chair beneath her to a teetering gravitational precipice. Kyla's sight exploded into stars, her body suspended for an endless moment in space before coming crashing down to earth with no way to brace the fall. Her wounded left arm took most of the shock of the landing, with her head only impacting slightly against the flagstones. Her vision was taking it's time returning to her, and just as she recovered from the initial eruption of pain, Cassius's boots appeared in her limited line of sight.

 

 

“Woad cunt” he snarled, kicking her full in her injured stomach, again and again. Over and over, progressively vicious in strength and execution The pain was intense, it was all consuming and Kyla prayed, she prayed it would be over soon.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

Tristan closed the door behind him firmly as he left Arthur's study. His debriefing could not have gone any better in hindsight and he was relieved it was over and done with. He started out across the fort back towards the holding cells, his feet seeming eager to get him there swiftly. As he wove through the bustling square, past the vegetable carts, squawking chickens and generally rowdy trades folk, he contemplated the things he and Arthur had spoken of.

 

 

Introspection wasn't something Tristan was fond of indulging in, and yet here he was again, questioning himself and the views that others had of him. As it turned out Arthur was supportive of his decision to bring the Woad back to Badon Hill. He played out the different scenarios and their consequences much as Tristan had reasoned out himself and concluded that he had done the only right thing he could have done under the circumstance. What gave Tristan pause to think was that Arthur had been surprised that it was the solution that _Tristan_ had come to. The Knights held Arthur up as a shining beacon of morality, one that they admired greatly, if not always inclined to follow by example to the same degree. Arthur had appeared genuinely taken aback after Tristan had given his account of his actions, and also, dare he think, a little _proud_? The implication and presumption being that one would think that Tristan, being who he is, would have left the girl for dead in any given scenario. Removing her from the immediate vicinity was strategic, but he then had the option of disposing of her elsewhere or bringing her with him. Though Arthur had commended his decision making, short of immediately questioning the girl he had not come to his own conclusions about what to do with her. He had requested the day to dwell on it, and commanded Tristan to resume interrogating the girl and to report back the next day with his findings.

 

 

Making his way through the fort Tristan was glad of his reputation, as people quickly sidestepped out of the way of the surly Knight. Of course, these days it appeared his luck would never hold. Tristan fought the urge to roll his eyes as he stalked past the tavern, refusing to let up his pace whilst Lancelot, grinning, jumped up from his seated position, which happened to have a very good view of the direction Tristan had just come from. He didn't bother calling out to his brother but fell into pace beside him jovially. Tristan was not in the mood. Lancelot was like a dog with a bone, knowing that his teasing was getting through Tristan's usually impenetrable shell.

 

 

“What say Arthur?” he asks, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

 

 

There was no point in attempting to ignore the buzzing gnat that was Lancelot.

 

 

“Continue the interrogation.” Tristan replied crisply.

 

 

“No need to ask, brother,” Lancelot smiled, clapping his hand onto Tristan's shoulder,” Of course I'll help you. Couldn't let you have all the fun. Terribly fascinated to learn more about the wildcat myself truth be told.”

 

 

There was no response Tristan could give that would not let on to his irritation so he he just gave a curt nod in reply. He suspected even his lack of reply served to amuse Lancelot. He did not want an audience when questioning the girl. It frustrated him no end that he required the assistance of Cassius to communicate with her in the first place. She was a riddle that needed solving. Not so much the girl herself and who she was, but the effect she was having on him and his usually ordered and clinical mind. Perhaps she _was_ a blue demon, casting him under a spell of confusion and self doubt.

 

 

His eyes locked on the door of the cell they were approaching, wishing he had not shut the door after himself as he had left, and in the same breath acknowledging that it was not right that he was thinking that as it meant he wished the door was open so he could set his eyes on the Woad girl sooner.

 

 

Stepping up his pace, hoping to leave Lancelot behind, he got to the door seconds before his fellow Knight, unable to stop his brows frowning in annoyance. He swung the door wide, a little too brusquely. The sight before him paused him but for a moment. A moment to take in the overturned chair. A moment for Cassius to finish savagely kicking something on the ground.

 

 

Cassius turned his head in Tristan's direction, one hand clasping his nose, blood dripping from his chin and staining the front of his tunic.

 

 

“Fucking bitch head butted me” he garbled from behind his hand, clearly indignant with rage.

 

 

In Tristan's home village there had been a surly blacksmith, with only one good eye, who couldn't complete a sentence without swearing. In his youth Tristan had spent many days at the smithy, watching as the old man stoked the fires and expertly forced the glowing metal to shape to his command. When the fires burned at their hottest they were white, pure white. In that moment Tristan felt that he was consumed with the same white hot intensity as those roaring flames. He wasn't known for losing his temper. His anger was a cool, dark place, running still and deep as a cavern's pool. All that was forgotten as he launched himself at the Roman.

 

 

Cassius shock at being on the receiving end of Tristan's attention was evident by his sluggishness to defend himself. Tristan grabbed him, twisting his body to throw him to the ground in the direction of the door where he landed heavily near Lancelot's feet. Rage was coursing through him, he was painfully aware of every fibre of his being. Every muscle, every limb was alight with barely contained energy. He glanced at the unmoving girl before grabbing a fistful of the Roman's tunic and hauling him to his feet, before slamming him against the wall, one forearm pinned across Cassius's throat.

 

 

“Did I say you could touch her.”he growled quietly, slamming the Roman back against the wall for emphasis.

 

 

Cassius's eyes were alight with their own fire and scorn, his blue eyes contrasting nicely with the crimson dripping down his chin.

 

 

“What in God's name is wrong with you!?” he spat. .

 

 

“Tristan” Lancelot's voice held a note of warning, a request for caution.

 

 

Tristan didn't want to relent, he wanted nothing more than to beat the living daylights out of the man before him. To smash his face until he felt bones breaking. To shove his thumbs into his eyesockets until he felt the orbs within burst. The depth of his anger scared him more than anything had managed to in the past ten years. This was not him, this was not how he acted. This division of mind and body was not how he had learned to survive in his captive land. His mind was always present when he fought, always aware, always conscious. With effort Tristan unclenched his teeth and relaxed his hold on the Roman.

 

 

“Get out” he said quietly.

 

 

Cassius, once free to move, returned one hand to cover his nose, the other clenched so his knuckled showed white. His eyes held a deathly glare and Tristan knew that he had not made any friends that day.

 

 

Lancelot intervened before Cassius could utter whatever words where on the tip of his tongue, a clever move for all involved.

 

 

“Come on, let's get that looked at” he said, his tone brokering no argument. Lancelot threw Tristan a guarded look as he let the Roman pass through the door before following him out.

 

 

Tristan stared blankly at the space they had just occupied, taking a moment to shakily gather himself. The barely audible groan behind him, however, got him moving again.

 

 

Tristan, his mind once more his own, moved quickly to right the chair, managing it easily. The groaning was magnified as the Woad jostled back into an upright position, her breath coming out in gasps. She had known nothing but pain since he had entered her life, he acknowledged ,whilst trying hard to deny the despondency it conjured. The Pict slumped forward, allowing her restraints to keep her in place. Her breathing was laboured and her dark curling hair fell forward to hide her down-turned face.

 

 

Tristan hunkered down in front of her, having to consciously keep his heart rate even for the first time in years. His knowing eye assessed the damage he could see. Her shredded tunic top had blossomed once more in bright red, adding to the darker stains already present. Blood dripped down her left arm, the bandage there now saturated. He imagined her wrists and ankles would be raw too. He needed to get Jols to look her over once again.

 

 

Battling one moment of hesitancy, Tristan reached out and steadily manoeuvred her chin upwards so he could see her face. He kept his thoughts to himself as their eyes met through a curtain of her dishevelled hair. With his free hand he slowly moved to shift the loose strands to one side but she moved away from his touch, jerking her chin free of his hold. She slowly tilted her head skywards, her eyes closed as she let out a pained breath and shook her hair back off of her face. When she turned to him her green eyes were tired, pained but determined. Her right eye was closed slightly from swelling, a bruise beginning to appear on her cheek. Cassius's handy-work. The accusation hung heavy around Tristan.

 

 

The Woad's lips parted slowly and her tongue prodded experimentally at the split in her bottom lip, casting her eyes down for a moment, wincing as she did so. Tristan couldn't tear his gaze away from her, taking an effort not to utter the apology on his own lips.

 

 

“What...do you...want with me?” she says quietly, but fiercely...in fairly perfect Latin.

 

 

Tristan could almost kick himself. She'd understood them all along. His quick mind processed the past few hours, the fleeting expressions he had noticed that had passed over her face as people talked around her, the slight look of alarm as Lancelot called him away from the cell. Lancelot's jibes...his innuendo and teasing. She was more clever than even he had given her credit for, and, in turn, perhaps more tormented by what was being said around her. Tristan was responsible for her and he had delivered her into the hands of Cassius.

 

 

How had he not interpreted her looks for the understanding that was there? A scout was meant to be more intuitive than that. To read volumes of information from the smallest indentation on the ground, to notice the broken twig that escaped the views of others, to see what was right in front of you. His own skills were clouded by her presence.

 

 

Tristan kept his face guarded, his revelations hidden behind the mask. He should be asking her about the forces to the North, the attacks on the Wall, what Cassius had done to her, why she had attacked him in the first place.

 

 

He just wanted to hear her speak again. He wanted her to say anything so he could listen to her unusually accented voice.

 

 

“Tell me your name”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

“Tell me your name”

 

 

Kyla was too tired to glare, she was in too much pain to spare Tristan a withering look. She just relented with unbroken eye contacted. Not saying a word. If he wouldn't answer her question she wouldn't be answering his.

 

 

Tristan's face was at the same level as hers, his hunkered form not crowding her, his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly together. His eyes danced slightly as he focused from one of her eyes to the other, searching, probing.

 

 

 _'Please look away first...',_ she pleaded in her mind, _'...please.'_

 

 

She had no energy left to be proud, to be strong. She was tired and not fit to be tested by him again so soon. She willed the tears she felt welling inside her to keep at bay. For the first time he broke their locked gaze, his eyes dropping to the bindings at her feet.

 

 

Kyla sighed quietly, taking a comfort in the smallest release it had brought. Kneeling, Tristan began to loosen the lengths of rope around her ankles. In so lucky as one could be in her position it seemed her foot coverings had protected her from chaffing. Rising, he circled her and began to undo her bound wrists. Kyla was aware that he didn't make contact with her any more than necessary as he worked at undoing the knots. Though the experience was different she couldn't help but shudder at the memory of Cassius standing behind her. She turned her head to the side so she could keep an eye on the Sarmatian, the dark recollection of moments before so close to the surface.

 

 

As the bindings around her wrist were blessedly loosened Kyla recalled how her vision had started fading to grey when she had heard the door open, announcing Tristan's arrival. Not that she had realised at the time that that was what she was hearing. All she had known then was that Cassius's foot had finally ceased kicking her savagely in the abdomen, giving her a moments respite. Her wishes of being knocked out cold had gone unanswered, being kicked slowly to death had lost it's appeal immediately as the pain had overwhelmed her,

 

 

She had been dimly aware of Cassius talking to someone and realised through a haze that he had been pulled away from her. She tried to focus on what was being said but could only muster the wherewithal to force her eyes open to search the room. She had seen that Tristan had Cassius pinned against a wall. Tristan was back. The dark Knight was by the door. She knew then that it was over...for now.

 

 

As the rope finally fell away Kyla let out a grunt of discomfort as she stretched out her shoulders and brought her hands to her lap. Her wrists were raw and angry from where the ropes had gouged in to her. She wasn't sure what hurt the most, her throbbing head, aching arms of her battered stomach. All together it just sent one thundering cacophony of pain through her system. She wished desperately to be home on her own pallet, curled under layers of wool and fur while Caleb nattered incessantly trying to stay up as late as possible.

 

 

The rope in question was tossed towards the door from behind her. Just as it landed in a tangle on the ground, the dark Knight, Lancelot, reappeared. For once he looked serious and remained quiet. Kyla wondered briefly at this other side of the Knight. No jokes now, no teasing. He assessed her gravely before glancing behind her at the warrior still at her back.

 

 

“Jols?” He said the name like it was a question. He must have received some unspoken answer from Tristan, he nodded once and immediately left.

 

 

Kyla's heart jumped in her chest at a screeching noise behind her, twisting her torso around in reaction, preparing for whatever she would find Tristan doing, wrenching her body in pain at the sudden movement.

 

 

Tristan had paused with the wooden cot tilted at an angle, half way through dragging it back into it's rightful position. He looked at Kyla, keeping eye contact steadily for a moment, giving her a chance to process what he was doing without alarming her further, before he continued on with the activity. She didn't think she had ever communicated so much with another living person without having to say anything at all.

 

 

Kyla's heart rate began to slow down once more but she kept her body half twisted around the chair to keep one eye on him and one on the door. She wrapped her right arm over her stomach, bending slightly at the waist so as to ease the pain. What use was an unguarded door now when she could barely even sit up straight?

 

 

Tristan was methodical in redistributing the hay over the cot. He shook out the previously discarded wool blanket and draped it over the bedding. As usual, for Kyla, she could read nothing from his expression. It stood to logic that he had not been happy with Cassius's behaviour if he had stopped him, but the indifference now was self evident. Perhaps he was only angry at being disobeyed? Kyla had come to know him as a controlling man, it stood to reason.

 

 

He straightened up and stood back from the cot, one shoulder leaning against the wall, looking at her with his dark eyes.

 

 

“Jols is the healer who tended to you before. Lie down, he'll be here shortly.” he said gruffly.

 

 

Kyla would have riled normally at the commands, the directions, the control Tristan exerted over her so casually, but lacked the energy this time to care. Beat her down and patch her up. Was this to be her life now? To what end?

 

 

Sensing a need to bite her tongue this time she used the backrest of the chair to support her weight, slowly rising to her feet, wincing at the pain that lanced through her. Kyla gritted her teeth as her vision went grey briefly and she felt light headed. Once sure of herself she took first one, then another step towards the cot. She did not pay much attention to Tristan, who stood sentry by the wall, observing her every move as she crossed the few feet of ground.

 

 

Kyla reached a hand down to guide her onto the cot, her eyes clenched tight at the manoeuvre. Once seated again she took a deep breath. She tried to lower her body back but her stomach muscles screamed in protest. Kyla leaned forward again, grimacing, one arm pressing against the bandages covering her stomach. Eyes closed, she took a few moments to compose herself. When she opened them they met Tristan's. He had taken one step towards her, but had paused there, waiting to see what she did.

 

 

There was no pity on his face, or no other earthly emotion she could identify with. He just watched her, analysed her, always assessing her every move. Curse his eyes.

 

 

Holding her breath, Kyla eased her body sideways onto the blanket, before using her legs to roll herself on to her back. She let her breath out again shakily once she had accomplished the feat, willing her body to relax, once muscle at a time.

 

 

She supposed she should have felt exposed, lying prone on a cot in a Roman fort with just the Sarmatian for company. Though terrifying, deadly and vastly stronger than her, she had come to her own understanding of the man. Where as she would have died before following the command to 'lie down' if the words had come from Cassius, from Tristan she had come to expect that he would be level with her. If and when he intended to kill her, she would know about it. And he would do it quickly, with as little pain as possible. How she was so sure of these thoughts she didn't know.

 

 

Tristan resumed leaning against the wall. He glanced towards the door. Kyla thought she might have detected a hint of irritation in the look. Impatience perhaps? When he looked at her again his brown eyes skimmed darkly over her body. There was no heat to the look to make her feel uncomfortable, only a level of scrutiny that made her self-conscious.

 

 

Tristan glanced once more at the door before expelling air in a rush out of his nose, an action that if it had come from his mouth would have been a sigh. He briskly walked to the far side of the room and retrieved the water skin, deposited half empty on the floor.

 

 

“I'd like to take a look at your wounds” he tells her, approaching the bed. Kyla's body tensed

, but Tristan made no other move towards her once he reached her side. Was he waiting for her consent? Jols had done the same the day before, hadn't he? Waiting until she gave him permission before he touched her.

 

 

Kyla scowled, but acquiesced. Tristan knelt by the bed. He produced a small blade from a sheath at his hip, sparing a glance at the girl. Kyla's heart fluttered momentarily.

 

 

“Your arm” he said quietly, indicating the soaked bandage with an incline of his head. So strange to think that she... _trusted_ this man to do no more with the blade than what he had indicated he would do. Kyla shifted her left arm away from her body, closer to the Knight. Gently and deftly Tristan made short work of the wrapping, the sharp blade slicing through fabric easily. Kyla kept her head turned to watch his movements, flickering between his hands and and his still and serious face.

 

 

His brown eyes were sharp, but guarded, partially hidden by strands of unkempt hair falling loose from his braids. Kyla noted the grey coming through his beard and wondered at his age. Older than her, but by how many years? She was distracted by the gentle but commanding touch at her elbow, directing her to raise her arm up slightly so that he could remove the rest of the cloth trapped beneath her arm before instructing her to drop her arm again. The Knight unstoppered the water skin and let a little run over the gash on her arm. The water was cold, at once shocking and soothing. Returning the skin to the ground he set about folding the bandages so that the least soiled section was on top and began to clean away the blood around the wound. Kyla hissed when the cloth probed too close to where it really hurt, but didn't cause Tristan to pause.

 

 

Tristan turned his head slightly towards the door before rising to his feet and stepping back from the cot. Not two seconds later Jols the healer entered. Did the Sarmatian have the hearing of a damn cat? Jols looked to Tristan.

 

 

“That bastard...” he began, but was waved off by Tristan.

 

 

“You weren't to know. It's done.”

 

 

It seemed that was that, Jols nodded and approached Kyla. She felt more comfortable with him present, remembering how sensitive and competent he had been the evening before. She noted Tristan's eyes meeting hers as he informed Jols of her capability with understanding and speaking Latin. In the moment she had spoken to him she had been too tired to keep up the ruse, but now she regretted letting the mask slip. It couldn't be helped now.

 

 

Jols look of surprise quickly transformed into something bordering on conspiratorial. He knelt down beside the cot, laying his package of medicinal goods on the bedding .

 

 

“You broke his nose by the way” he said with a small grin accompanied by a wink.

 

 

Kyla couldn't suppress the smile she returned to the gentle man at his revelation and apparent glee.

 

 

“Now let's have a look at you” he said, glancing at her lip as he unravelled his various lotions and potions. “First things first” he continued, gathering a little bud of a sweet smelling ointment and offering to place it on her wounded lip.

 

 

“I..can “ Kyla said, stopping the man with her words. She lifted her hand and gingerly, with one finger and minimum contact, lifted the healing balm off of his hand. Someone else touching her lips felt far too intimate. She liberally covered the area of her mouth that hurt, with a nod from Jols upon completion indicating she had managed to cover the right area.

 

 

With her cooperation he made short work of tending to her arm and, with some shuffling and tentative manoeuvring, her battered abdomen. Her wounds this time around seemed to create a level of disdain in the healer as he occasionally frowned or tutted.

 

 

Lancelot returned as Jols finished securing the fresh wrapping around her middle. He was carrying a steaming jug and a small cup. Jols had clearly been expecting him.

 

 

“Yes, here, please” he said when he noticed the Knight, pointing to the ground near where he knelt. Once Lancelot had relinquished his hold of the jug he cast a solemn look at Kyla. What was one to make of him at all? Gone, for now, was the innuendo spewing man and what was left behind was someone reserved and respectful when the moment called for it.

 

 

Jols carefully poured out some of the contents of the jug into the small receptacle.

 

 

“Willowbark tea, to ease your pain and help you rest. Can you sit up?” Kyla was familiar with the brew, knowing that it drifted you off into a deep sleep. Her base instinct to not be unconscious around these men warred with the discomfort she felt. The tea's promise of warm release was too seductive. Kyla attempted to raise herself on to her elbows but struggled with the fresh wave of aches and pains.

 

 

“Tristan?” she heard Jols ask quietly, before she could really comprehend. The Knight was by her side, a strong, solid arm gently cradling her body forward until she was sitting upright enough to drink. Kyla's left hand came to rest on his shoulder, unsure of whether the move was to cling to him for support as she winced or an aborted effort to push him away. He smelled of leather and horses and Kyla's heart picked up a pace at the close contact. His assistance made it more difficult for Jols to access her so he simply took the cup from the healer. The Knight got the smallest of creases between his eyebrows that Kyla expected she would not have noticed except for their proximity. He brought the cup close to his face and gently blew on the steaming contents in an attempt to cool it down. Kyla had not been so 'mothered' since she was a child and the conflicting emotions it evoked were mortification and... comfort. Kyla felt like her world had been turned on it's head to be in such a situation.

 

 

Seemingly satisfied with his ministrations, without making eye contact for once, Tristan raised the cup slowly to Kyla's mouth giving her plenty of time to prepare. As the rim touched her lips he tilted it slightly to let her drink. Kyla tried not to gag at the bitterness of the tea as some of it slid down her throat. She raised her free hand quickly to cover his and stop him. Tristan paused, his eyes finding hers, so close, too close.

 

 

“It will help” he said quietly, Kyla felt the words rumble from his chest. Some small dignified part of her even now did not want to appear weak in his presence. Kyla, her smaller hand still partially enclosing his, directed the cup towards her mouth again. She took a long draught before breaking off again, then quickly finished off the last of the liquid in a couple of more sips. Kyla grimaced at the last drop. She quickly released her grip on his hand almost embarrassed, freeing him to give the empty cup back to Jols. Kyla wondered at the hint of amusement that danced in the Knight's dark eyes almost too quickly to register before it was gone.

 

 

Tristan slowly lowered Kyla's upper body back to the cot. She couldn't help herself from squeezing down on his shoulder as the movement pained her. Once she was horizontal again she removed her hand as though the touch had burned her. It was not right, to feel comfort from her enemy, from the man who had brought her here. Tristan stood quickly as Jols took his place by her side once again.

 

 

Kyla met Jols kindly eyes. “The tea will work quickly. I'll check on you in the morning”

 

 

She nodded that she understood, already feeling the remarkable pain relief seeping through her body.

 

 

“Thank you” Kyla said quietly, to the obvious satisfaction of the healer.

 

 

“Rest well” he said as he rose to leave.

 

 

Kyla let the soothing properties of the tea wash over her slowly, her eyes already feeling heavy with sleep. As she began to drift off, her worries and cares slipping away, she was aware of a conversation taking place near by. The last thing she remembered was Tristan talking before succumbing to a feeling of shelter and comfort.

 

 

“I'll watch over her.”

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Tristan placed his tankard down on the ground. Leaning forward in his chair he rolled his shoulders to loosen them and tilted his head back and to one side until her heard a satisfying crack. Resting his elbows on his knees he clasped his hands loosely together. The day had been uneventful to say the least, but it was gradually ebbing away to evening. The chair was against one wall so he could keep an eye on his captive and the other on the section of the fort viewable through the open cell door. Few people other than Roman soldiers occupied this section of the fort and as the light began to fade it remained quiet. As a scout he was well used to long hours planted in the one spot. Unmoving and watchful. Luckily for Cassius he never made a reappearance, Tristan's thoughts of him were still sour.

 

 

The monotony had been broken by the occasional toilet break and the appearance of a few of his brothers over the course of the day. Some welcome, some less so. Galahad and Gawain checked in before they left for a routine patrol. Gawain apparently was quietly bemused by Tristan's actions as he had heard tell from Lancelot, and he promised his tight lipped brother a lengthy conversation on the subject upon his return. Tristan would have to watch out for that one. Chivalrous Galahad had expressed his support for Tristan, adding that he probably would have done much worse if their situations had been reversed.

 

 

A much more pleasant sight later was Dagonet with two full bowls of stew and the tankard of ale. The Romans at the fort were much more concerned with the finest blends of wine, but the Sarmatians had a taste for the local brew.

 

 

Dagonet, as usual, kept his thoughts to himself other than a cursory enquiry after the Woad girl. It was a trait that Tristan appreciated.

 

 

Before long he was left to his welcome solitude. More often than not his eyes had drifted towards the bed and lingered there. The girl, who's name still eluded him, had barely moved since downing the bitter draft. Tristan recalled invading her space to assist her. Jols had asked for his help but Tristan suspected he was motivated to action by his own selfish urge to be closer to her. To make contact. Not aggressively or violently, but to be gentle. She had clung to him and kept him at bay in equal measures. He had cooled the brew instinctively until he thought it an acceptable temperature, and watched carefully as he held it up to her split lip, making sure not to tip the cup too far. When her hand had come up to wrap around his to still his movements he finally allowed himself to meet her eyes, both wary, one partially closed. She was so close now that he could see her eyes were ringed in a deeper fern hue, with flashes of hazel closer to the pupils, which at that moment were as small as thorn pricks.

 

 

Controlling his features he tried not to think about how small her hand was compared to his, how it felt delicate yet strong all at once. How he liked the weight of her torso on his arm and how her chest moved with each shallow breath. About how he wanted to kiss her damaged lip better. He quashed them all down.

 

 

He knew first hand the bitterness of the willowbark tea, having drank quantities of the nasty stuff at various times over the years. It seemed to disagree with her by her puckered brow and grimace.

 

 

'It will help' he had told her with assurance, and it was true.

 

 

Once she had drank it the influence would be fairly instantaneous, and he was tired of watching her suffer. A look of determination flitted across her face and she took command of his hand, directing the cup back to her lips and valiantly downed the lot in a few gulps. Tristan reckoned he was unsuccessful in keeping away the hint of a smile that was threatening to pull at his lips.

 

 

He had returned the cup to Jols and eased her body back onto the scratchy bedding, slowing his movements as her hand squeezed down on his shoulder and she gave a soft moan. How glorious it would be to hear the same sound elicited in pleasure, the thought came unbidden and unwanted. As soon as she had lay back her hand dropped from his shoulder as if the contact had caused revulsion. Perhaps deserving. Tristan was not a jealous man by nature but her softly spoken thanks to the healer made him long to have been on the receiving end of such words. He discarded the faint touch of anger that he felt like directing towards the man.

 

 

Her breathing had evened out to a steady and slow rhythm and had continued thus undisturbed for the entire day. It's even pattern had been his constant companion as he had stood guard so when he heard a soft murmur Tristan had finished the ale he had been nursing, knowing she would soon be conscious again. Rising, he headed outside and retrieved two torches, lighting them from a brazier burning in the soldiers' yard, and placed them in the now empty sconces in the cell. The darkening room came alive with the flickering warm light, causing shadows to dance upon the wakening form of the Woad girl.

 

 

Tristan closed the door, not bothering to lock it, returned to his chair and waited. There was more of the willowbark tea that Jols had left infusing, cold now and even less palatable, as well as an salve for her chaffed wrists and some extra bandages, should they be needed.

 

 

Her head tossed gently from side to side and her brows drew down over her closed eyes. Groaning slightly, one arm snaked over her stomach. Her eyes fluttered open briefly but remained closed thereafter for some minutes as her entire body rocked slowly back and forth while pitiful noises escaped her. Tristan observed as she slowly regained consciousness. The moment her reality caught up with her evident in the searching look she cast around the room, and the dejection apparent when her eyes settled on him.

 

 

She attempted to sit up but immediately winced in pain and lay back down. She closed her eyes, growled slightly and with great effort swung her legs off the low cot and got herself into a sitting position. Both hands gripped the edge of the bed as she closed her eyes, adjusting to the pain and the groggy after effects of the tea. Her face was downcast, her dark hair in disarray, but when her eyes opened again they locked straight on Tristan.

 

 

“What now... _Sarmatian_?” Her voice was scratchy from misuse. Tristan concealed how it pleased him that she had spoken unprompted.

 

 

He rose, under her watchful stare, and moved his chair, the chair she had not long ago occupied, setting it down heavily in front of her. That made her spine straighten, her hands shifted back to the middle of the cot so she could lean further back away from him and keep some sense of distance. So as not to let her thoughts get too far ahead of her he slowly retook his seat. His position left him slightly elevated above her. Slowly, precisely, he reached down near his foot and lifted up the clay pot Jols had left with him, the ceramic base scratching pleasantly as it left the floor.

 

 

Grabbing the seat of the chair with his free hand, Tristan slowly shifted it closer to the mistrustful woman. He stopped when one of his leather clad knees came into contact with hers. He balanced the little pot on the other.

 

 

'Give me your hand' he said quietly, with authority. He opened his callused palm to her.

 

 

She had immediately tensed when he had gotten so close, and her body practically vibrated with the strain to resist a retreat, or attack. The Woad's eyes were calculating, before she slowly leaned in closer again, her right elbow resting on her thigh as she dropped her hand into his waiting one. There was a skinny leather tong wrapped around her wrist, unfortunately not big enough to have protected her much. He undid the loose knot and unravelled it, before tossing it to one side on the cot. Her eyes followed his movements as he manipulated her palm this way and that while he gently and generously applied the ointment to the angry marks his rope had left behind. He avoided eye contact, as she avoided his, they were too close for that. He gave her hand a small squeeze to indicate that he was finished, and she dutifully swapped over so he could repeat the process with her left wrist. Throughout Tristan worked hard at keeping his mind blank, filtering through only thoughts that pertained to the care of the woman before him. His work completed, he offered up the ceramic pot to the Pict.

 

 

'Your lip' he said pointedly.

 

 

She dipped one finger into the pot, turning her head from him to hide her movements as she applied the salve. He respected her need for a modicum of privacy and pushed his chair back further from the bed., receiving frank appraisal for his actions.

 

 

Tristan caught the look she darted ever so quickly to the bowl of stew, sitting cold on the ground beside his empty one. The wooden spoon sat stiffly in the congealing meal. Without rising, he leaned over and scooped it up from the ground, offering it to the woman. She accepted the bowl, but sat it down beside her on the cot.

 

 

'What now, _Sarmatian_?' her voice was more firm this time. She had settled her hands to grip the edge of the cot once more, and he observed that her good posture was probably due to her wounded stomach.

 

 

Tristan crossed his arms and reclined in his seat. What now.

 

 

'Who is your leader?'

 

 

Stony silence was his only reply, as he expected.

 

 

'Are the attacks on the Wall organised?' he followed brusquely, his words as clipped and economical as his fighting style.

 

 

'I know nothing of these attacks', she answered hurriedly, biting her answer out in frustration. Tristan considered her reply. Either she was a bad liar or she really was ignorant of the raiding parties that were becoming worryingly frequent along their border. Pictish women were just as likely to be warriors as home makers, but the reports from the legion never mentioned any female participants. Was she a home maker? Did she have a warrior husband desperately looking for her now? Did she have a child who wailed last night for the loss of her breast? These thoughts were pointless and Tristan scolded himself for where they lead him.

 

 

'How big is your village?'

 

 

He was not surprised when she didn't answer. Tristan shifted in his seat again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, steepling his hand loosely together. The movement, though not rushed, made the Woad jump slightly, the high strung tension present once more. She composed herself quickly though when he made no further movement. The flickering light of the flames highlighted the bruises on her face and Tristan cursed Arthur's timing in summoning him. Cassius had clearly left her shaken. The physical evidence of what he had done to her was clear but Tristan worried at how far the bastard had tormented the woman. Tristan frowned and caught her gaze with a sense of purpose.

 

 

'I'm...sorry' he nodded slightly towards her damaged face, the word difficult to say. Tristan was more surprised than the Woad looked that it had slipped past his lips. Her look turned suspicious.

 

 

It was not a word he had uttered often. He absolutely _was_ sorry that he had left her alone with that Roman pig. Was he still sorry that he hadn't just killed her back in the arena of trees? No, that sentiment had passed, though he couldn't quite place when it had happened. Did he feel contrite for stealing her away to the fort? Yes...and no. Her presence upset the balance of his world, but he was no longer sure if that was such a bad thing. Her very being was like a splash of cold water first thing in the morning. He felt awake, and he had not realised he'd even been asleep. That this awareness occurred at the expense of her freedom and will was no good thing. Tristan felt as conflicted by her now as he did when they first crossed paths. Yet he felt compelled to distance himself, and his brothers, from Cassius's actions.

 

 

'We are not like the Romans. We do not treat our prisoners...' he waved one hand minutely towards her face,'... we do not treat...women...like that.' he finished, gruffly, a little angry at what he felt was tantamount to him babbling. He didn't understand his own desire to justify himself to her and he left him irate. She made no reaction to his declaration, looking unmoved either way. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her subtle expression changed to one of curiosity.

 

 

'You take many prisoners?' she asked quietly.

 

 

Tristan didn't hesitate.

'No', he replied directly and truthfully. The Sarmatians never took captives, enemies were met in battle and none were left alive who crossed blades with them.

 

 

The girl folded her arms across her stomach, cradling it, wincing slightly in the process, as she processed his words.

 

 

'I don't know anything about the attacks on the Wall...' she insisted once more, and he felt she was willing him to believe her with the intensity of her pale green stare, '...and I will not tell you anything of my people...' she added solemnly, 'so...what now, _Sarmatian_?'

 

 

She clearly had not given Cassius the answers he had been looking for, had held her tongue throughout his assault. Tristan believed if he had not returned when he had that Cassius would have probably beaten her beyond recovery. She would not talk he ridiculed himself for the vague sense of approval he felt at her declaration. Neither would he, had the tables been turned.

 

 

'Now you will eat, and rest. There is more willo...'

 

 

'I will have no more tea.' she cut his words off quickly, daring him to push the subject at his own peril. He nodded his acceptance of her choice but her disgruntled look amused him. He made sure not to let it show. The ensuing silence was interrupted by a lamentable rumble from her stomach that did nothing to improve her mood.

 

 

Tristan rose, moving the chair to one side. He took a flaming torch from it's cradle on the wall, opened the cell door and tossed it out onto the dirt where it guttered slowly. By right he should have removed the second torch, she had already used one as a weapon, but he caught her wistful glance at it. Tristan let it be, to his own surprise.

 

 

'Eat. Rest.'

 

 

She cast her glance beyond him, searching the darkened yard. He noted a couple of soldiers near by and guessed at her diligence.

 

 

'My brothers will patrol tonight.' he told her. Tristan didn't need to elaborate further, she understood his meaning and nodded tightly to show it. He was struck suddenly by her situation as he surveyed her, huddled in on herself, staring balefully back at him. Alone, hurt, in the dark with less of a clue of what was to become of her than he had himself. Compelled, and without dissecting the impulse behind it, he reached up and undid the tie on his cloak, sliding it loose from his shoulders.

 

 

He marched back towards her. When he reached the cot he snapped the clothe out above and behind her as he went down on one knee.

 

 

The heavy wool settled over her shoulder, Tristan's hands still gripped the fabric on either side of the collar.

 

 

He met her eyes and swore his heart missed a beat.

 

 

She looked so lost. For a moment, so was Tristan.

 

 

 

As abruptly as he had been galvanised into action, he was back off his knee and heading out the door.

 

 

He did not look at her again.

 

 

 

'Tomorrow, you'll be taken to Arthur.' he said sharply, punctuated by the door slamming shut behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

It had been some minutes since Tristan had left.

 

 

The woven cloak draped around Kyla still held the lingering warmth of it's previous wearer. The grey wool was soft with age and wear and surrounded her with the smell of the Sarmatian Knight. The earthy aroma was not unpleasant and Kyla found herself gripping the edges of the fabric and swaddling herself with its warmth.

 

 

Her eyes stared vacantly at the cell door while her mind processed all that had happened since she had awoken. On a positive note it seemed that Tristan either believed she knew nothing about the attacks on the Wall, or had come to the conclusion that he could not make her talk. The bad news was that meant she was going to come face to face with Arthur tomorrow. _The_ Arthur. The stories of the Sarmatians' prowess on the battlefield was nothing compared to the tales of their leader.

 

 

Some claimed his sword was imbued with the power of the Gods, that if you received a scratch from it's blade no amount of bandaging or stitching could stem the flow and you would bleed until your body lay dead and empty. Others said that the sword was forged under the brightest moonlight and when drawn it had the power to dazzle it's enemies and blind them temporarily, giving the bearer the upper hand.

 

 

Kyla hugged the cloak closer, shielding herself as a sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach at the thoughts of meeting the Roman leader, but a sense of purpose also began to kindle. If she could cut the head off the adder, so to speak, then perhaps she could make some use of her wretched life before it ended. If she could injure, or even kill, Arthur it would be a damning blow to the Roman occupiers.

 

 

Kyla considered all the stories she had heard about the Sarmatian Knights and compared that to the little she had gleaned from them in her short time here. They were fearsome, undeniably, but they seemed to carry an element of... _honour..._ about them _._ Kyla immediately acknowledged it was preposterous to think this way about them given her situation. She wrestled with how she had come to the conclusion about her captors. She could admit that even the dark Knight, Lancelot, had seemed sombre and unhappy with her treatment at the hands of Cassius. Though his teasing and innuendo was tasteless, perhaps it was all a bravado? Kidnapping Pict girls from across the Wall was hardly 'honourable'...but then she accepted that slitting their throats in the middle of the forest was probably less so. She had not interacted much with the rest of the Knights, so Tristan was her main point of reference and Kyla felt utterly confused by the surly warrior.

 

 

Her rumbling stomach made it's presence known again and snapped her temporarily from her reverie. Absently, she picked up the wooden bowl and began to spoon the thickened stew into her mouth, pausing on the first taste to appreciate the blend of flavours from the dish. Somebody at the fort knew their way around a cauldron, even cold it tasted good. Kyla supposed she should be grateful that her hunting trip hadn't been for naught.

 

 

As she ate she contemplated her captor and weighed up his actions. Tristan had stopped Cassius from beating her. He had apologised for Cassius's behaviour, a fact that still surprised her. He had cradled her body as she drank the bitter tea. He had tended her wounds, those he had inflicted, and not. Tristan, who had held a knife to her throat. Tristan, who had cut her. Tristan, who had bound her up and marched her to the Wall and beyond...Tristan, who had enveloped her in his cloak when she had felt at her weakest. Curse the man, there was no making him out at all.

 

 

Kyla frowned. He had said that the Sarmatians did not take prisoners...if so, why was _she_ here. She held no value as a hostage, she was unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Kyla recalled how, with just a few words, he had put her tortured mind at ease regarding one thing that had preyed on her thoughts. The Sarmatians were not inclined to force themselves upon women...at least that was what he had implied... if what he said could be trusted at all. Kyla was realising that she did trust him regarding that. She sighed, polishing off her meal, wishing there was a second helping. Grimacing, she bent down and placed the bowl on the floor, picked up her ration of water and washed her meal down. Her lip only throbbed minimally as she drank, which was a small blessing considering the rest of her body felt like she'd been at the mercy of a stampede of cattle.

 

 

The need to empty her bladder was becoming more apparent but there was still too much activity outside her cell for her to feel comfortable doing it. She could hear a few raucous conversations going on near by, peppered by the occasional laugh. Kyla wrapped the cloak tighter around her and, making slow progress, lay back down on her cot.

 

 

She briefly mulled over whether she should just down the rest of the tea to ease her back to sleep, but decided against it. Kyla would rather suffer than loose herself to oblivion once more. Being so prone in the den of her enemies was not appealing. She had been weak for taking the draught earlier, but had been so tired of fighting that she had succumbed to temptation. Never again.

 

 

Kyla stared at the wooden beams that spanned the ceiling, watching as the lone torch threw its flickering light across them, making their shadows quiver and dance. She felt her spirit rally within her. She was hurt, yes, but she wasn't done fighting yet. She felt slightly better than she had before she had slept. On top of her various bumps and bruises, her limbs still felt stiff from the over exertion the day before, but they had improved. There wasn't much she could do in her sorry state other than rest and build back some of her energy. Tomorrow she would come face to face with Arthur, perhaps redeem herself whilst striking a blow to her enemies. There was no point in formulating a plan, she would just have to take any opportunity that arose. Tristan had always been one step ahead of her thus far, anticipating her moves almost before she was aware of what she was doing herself. He was constantly vigilant, constantly watching. She'd be lucky to have even a small window to take action.

 

 

She found if she stayed perfectly still the majority of her aches subsided. With her belly full, Kyla's eyelids became heavy once more. As her mind drifted, a shiver ran down her spine as she pictured the Scout, on his knees, inches from her face. When he had strode towards her from the door she had had no clue as to what he had intended to do. As his cloak had circled her and settled about her shoulders, her heart had hammered in panic and surprise. Tristan's hands had rested for mere moments on her collarbones, trapping her and... _enveloping_ her all at once. Though he had just covered her in another layer of fabric, she had felt exposed and cold before him. With him so close she could not hide her vulnerability. Her eyes laid bare her fears and pain and when she was on the verge of violently pushing him away from her she was relieved that he had stood once more. The memory shamed her. She could never be that weak in front of him again.

 

 

Kyla slowly rolled onto her right side, drawing her legs up towards her chest as far as was comfortable as her left arm hugged her stomach. The cloak served well as a blanket and she ducked her head under it's shelter, trying to block out the reality of her hopeless situation. With a heavy heart she allowed herself to think of Calum, of her aunt and uncle who, by now, must be aware of her fate and already begun accepting the inevitable. Only one person could walk away when a Pict and a Sarmatian crossed paths. It had been two whole days now since she had been taken. Kyla wondered if they were still searching for her, dreading yet determined to find her corpse. They would want to say the proper prayers over her body and make sure she arrived intact in the afterlife.

 

 

She didn't think they would have considered that she might have survived. Tears began to cloud her eyes as she thought sadly about what her Aunt Iseabail must be going through. She had already lost a dear sister to the Roman occupiers, taking Kyla under her wing in the process without a second thought. It was Iseabail and her husband Frang who had raised her as their own, having never been blessed with a child themselves. She knew that Frang would have been the first one out searching for her, and the last one to head home at night. He was a good hunter with a knack for tracking. Perhaps he had followed their trail to the edge of the woods and come to realise that Kyla's fate had been decided beyond Wall. If the likes of Taran and Drest had been involved in these raiding parties they must have known a way across the colossal barrier. Boisterous and foolish though they were, and no matter how eager they were to make a name for themselves, there would be no way for them to reach her behind the fortifications of Badon Hill.

 

 

Kyla scrubbed at her eyes furiously as she thought of Calum. He was not her brother by blood, just another orphan with nowhere to turn to, lovingly embraced into a new family. It made no difference to her. They were as close as kin and she hoped that he knew he had done the right thing by not intervening. He was relentless when he set his mind to learning and mastering a new skill, but was just as unforgiving on himself when he failed. She hoped that he was not currently torturing himself over something that neither of them could have controlled.

 

 

Kyla was glad that no one was there to witness her lack of composure.

 

 

Though body and mind were exhausted, it took her a long time to fall asleep. The unfamiliar night noises that permeated a fort housing hundreds of people sought to interrupt her bid for slumber. A pair of murky brown eyes hidden behind a veil of hair was the last thing to cross her mind as sleep finally claimed her.

 

 

...ooOoo...

 

Tristan was well used to people avoiding him in the fort in general. It appeared that his thunderous mood must have leaked into his posture and general demeanour though as people scarpered a little quicker to get out of his way as he stomped away from the prison cell.

 

 

 _Good_ , he thought. The way he was feeling he was likely to abandon his cool reserve and lash out at someone for the smallest infraction. He was too wound up to go to his chamber, too undesiring of company to hit the tavern for a drink. Tristan stopped dead in his tracks, eyes not looking at anything in particular. The people of the fort skirted around him, going about their early evening business whilst giving the Sarmatian Scout a wide berth. Confused and occasionally worried glances were slyly cast his direction, but he took no notice, whilst also absorbing all the information around him.

 

 

He was aimless. He didn't know where he wanted his feet to take him and so he stood there, planted to the spot, quietly seething. Tristan had never felt so unsure of himself before, not since he was a young lad, before his natural aptitude as a fighter had surfaced. What spell had she cast over him to make him act so out of character. Practically from the first moment their paths had crossed he had been feeling unlike himself.

 

 

Tristan's hands clenched tight. He pictured her vulnerable eyes, how she had looked as lost as he felt now. Tristan had never sought to comfort someone before. The rest of his brothers made do with a firm hand on the shoulder to steer them to a source of alcohol, that was Tristan's only outlet for expressing solidarity with them. He could be a presence by their side in their time of need and would line them up to drown their sorrows. That had always been enough. That hadn't been enough for him tonight. He had wanted to shelter her, to offer some relief, to protect her. The absurdness of it all was that he was who she needed protecting from.

 

 

Tristan looked up at the clear sky. There was a new moon and the cold stars burned all the brighter having no competition from the moon. He wished he could sprout wings like Tamura and take to the skies and just fly and fly, in any direction.

 

 

'Tristan?'

 

 

He turned his head in the direction his name had been called to find Gawain detaching himself from the curvaceous brunette he was leading by the waist, heading in the general direction of the Sarmatians dwellings. She pouted, and mocked stomping her foot in temper, grabbing at the Knight's hand to snap him back into her arms.

 

 

'Gawaaaiiiiin' she implored.

 

 

Gawain laughed, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and easily hoisting her up, swinging her around in a wide arc as her skirts swirled and she squealed in delight. Placing her back on her feet again, Gawain kissed her deeply, tangling his fingers in her long locks.

 

 

'Tomorrow night, my dear, I promise. I have no doubt you'll survive without me' he said as he placed one more kiss upon her forehead.

 

 

'Go on', he smiled, giving her bottom a quick smack to which she responded with a 'Oi!' and a giggle.

 

 

She threw an unfriendly look look at Tristan before heading back towards the tavern, the sway in her step exposing how much she'd had to drink that night.

 

 

Gawain watched her walk away, a small sigh escaping him.

 

 

'The things I could be doing to her right now...' he trailed off, lost in devious thoughts.

 

 

He turned his attention back to Tristan with a twinkle in his eye. Tristan, who was less than happy to suddenly find himself in company.

 

 

'You owe me a conversation, Brother.' Gawain said mischievously, slapping a large hand down upon Tristan's back.

 

 

Tristan had been avoiding this all day, but knew there would be no shaking the Knight off the scent now that he had Tristan all to himself.

 

 

'I'll make this as painless and as interesting as possible,' he grinned, draping his arm across Tristan's stiff shoulders ' how about a little target practise?'

 

 

Gawain retrieved the small dagger at his waist, flipping it in the air expertly, catching it by the handle each time it returned to his hand.

 

 

'Each shot I get closer to the target, you must answer one of my questions.' he winked.

 

 

Tristan took the offer at face value. Gawain knew he could not get Tristan to speak without some form of encouragement or persuasion. Tristan was the better marksman of the two and they both knew it, this was Gawain's gamble to get Tristan to agree to divulging his thoughts. It was as tempting as Gawain knew it would be, if Tristan agreed now and bettered his fellow Knight, he wouldn't have to say anything at all and Gawain would be forced to leave well alone.

 

 

However, Tristan still felt restless and aggravated. He didn't want to talk, but saw an opportunity that Gawain's presence created.

 

 

'How about we go a few rounds in the training ring? Practise swords, no shields, you land a hit, I'll answer a question' Tristan countered.

 

 

The Knights often sparred with one another, no one else at the fort was enough of a challenge for them, and it helped to keep them sharp. It had been some time since Tristan and Gawain had faced off, and Tristan watched as his Brother's eyes lit up at the suggestion. When push came to shove Tristan still thought he had the edge on his fellow warrior. Gawain's weapons of choice were a mace and axe duo, plus he'd had more to drink that evening. Tristan was confident he would not have to say much of anything in the ring, and in the meantime expend some of his pent up energy and frustration.

 

'I'm good at two things, Tristan,' Gawain declare, beginning to list off on his fingers,' Fighting...and fucking, and since it looks like I've passed on the opportunity to bury myself between sweet Heather's thighs, and you're really not my type, I'd say you have yourself a deal.'

 

 

...ooOoo...

 

 

 

It wasn't long before they found themselves standing across a sand strewn training ring facing one another, hardwood swords in hand. They had lit enough of the fire pits that encircled the enclosure to cast a warm light over the open arena. As Tristan had expected there was no one else foolish enough to be training at this hour and they had the place to themselves.

 

 

Both men had removed their clothing above the waist, and their hard, scarred bodies stood poised and ready. Gawain made a big show about stretching and loosening his muscles. Tristan held his sword in both hands, taking longer than usual to find that quiet place inside of himself where his discipline and control came from. Once he was centred, he let a rare feral smile curve his lips. Yes, this was exactly what he needed.

 

 

Gawain returned the look with one of his own, twirling his wooden Gladius from one side of his body to the other and back again, advancing slowly.

 

 

'I know you're not prone to long monologues, Tristan, but I'll get you talking yet' Gawain said with confidence.

 

 

Even to the uninitiated it would be clear that these two warriors were exemplary fighters. Once the they proceeded to duel it was a beautiful, deadly dance of clashing blades. Their honed bodies were as much of a weapon as the swords in their hands.

 

 

The Knights' fighting styles differed dramatically, each working to their own strengths. Gawain's technique appeared the more savage of the two, favouring brute strength and close proximity to inflict swift damage to his opponents. The shorter wooden blade suited him better than it did Tristan. Tristan's own dao sword provided him a longer reach, which complimented his calculated and precise moves perfectly, so he had to make adjustments for the difference in length. He knwe though that of the two, Gawain would be the one to tire more quickly and would be looking to strike an early hit.

 

 

Every parry, every strike and block that thrummed up Tristan's arms made him feel alive. It gave him something to focus on and kept his mind occupied with simple thoughts, distractting them from straying to the wildling girl. Attack and block, attack and block. Tristan successfully made the first touch, cracking the edge of his blade down upon Gawain's shoulder.

 

 

'Agh.... _damn_ it' Gawain growled, both men stepping back for a breather, sweat beginning to glisten on their bodies. 'I'll have you yet, Tristan' he promised, readying himself once again.

 

 

Gawain's attacks became more ferocious, and he began peppering his moves with small conversation.

 

 

'Does Lancelot have the right of it then?' Gawain grunted as he swung his blade in a wide arc, trying to throw Tristan off balance.

 

 

'Do you need someone to warm your bed at night that badly?' he mused, jumping back from Tristan's answering manoeuvre. He circled around the Scout, who refused to show him his back, mirroring his movements. Tristan suppressed a snarl.

 

 

'She's a little too skinny for my taste, but each to their own' Gawain growled, redoubling his efforts, making Tristan up his game or risk giving ground. His shot went slightly wide and gave Tristan the opening to jab the tip of his sword savagely into his Brother's ribs.

 

 

'Argh' Gawain huffed, gripping his side with a wince. He threw a suspicious look at Tristan, then smiled.

 

 

The fact that Tristan was being affected in some way by Gawain's adolescent baits gave him a moments worry. Why did he care how any of the Knights spoke about the Pict. She was a captive and nothing more than collateral damage. He shook it off and prepared for the next onslaught.

 

 

Gawain swung his right arm in a big circle, stretching out the muscles in his ribcage before resuming the grip on his blade.

 

 

'Perhaps that last ale was a mistake,' he said with a lopsided grin. 'Now where were we...' Gawain trailed off as he launched himself back into the fray. For some minutes the two were equally matched, neither giving way to the other, both spending equal amounts on offence and defence. Their breathing became more ragged as they pushed themselves harder. Tristan could tell Gawain was beginning to tire though, his moves coming a little slower, and with a little less power than before.

 

'Bed her, or behead her.' Gawain bit out whilst blocking a particularly swift move on Tristan's part. 'If you're not man enough for the job, I'll gladly step in'

 

 

Tristan saw red. He found an extra reserve of strength and savagery and began raining blows down upon his fellow Knight. His assault was relentless and his breathing became more and more laboured. Gawain fought back admirably, but amid the flurry of the attack, and perhaps in no small part to the alcohol he had consumed that evening, he lost his footing and fell on to his back. Tristan, seizing the opportunity, went in for the kill, throwing his weight behind a final blow.

 

 

At the last possible second Gawain twisted his torso to avoid the strike, managing to jab upwards under Tristan's armpit.

 

 

The both stilled.

 

 

Then Gawain whooped triumphantly.

 

 

'Aha! I have you now.' he crowed, a little too smugly for Tristan's liking.

 

 

Tristan offered him a hand up, which was duly accepted. Gawain dusted himself off, catching his breath, a smile across his face. Tristan was sombre, and more than a little annoyed at himself for conceding the hit. He had lost control, and it was not the first time that day.

 

 

'I think that's quite enough for one night,' Gawain said retrieving his sword from the ground and making his way, a little stiffly, to the rack were they were kept. Tristan trailed him like a dark cloud. How juvenile of him to react to teasing and jest. Tristan felt like a teenage boy who's hormones had him flying wildly off the handle, unable to control his emotional responses. Why did he even have emotional responses to the girl in the first place?

 

 

Returning the wooden Gladius to it's rightful place, he reached for his clothing and began putting his layers back on, following Gawain's lead.

 

 

'Tristan, why did you drag a Pict girl South of the Wall?' Gawain asked seriously, doing up the ties on his leather tunic.

 

 

'If I had killed her there the Woads would have known we were scouting the area, it was better to leave our presence unknown,' Tristan answered, somewhat prepared.

 

 

'No, you mistake my meaning.' Gawain's eyes narrowed, his hands pausing in their ministrations.

 

 

' Why did _you, Tristan_ , drag her here? If it had been Galahad, I would have rolled my eyes for his bleeding heart. I know you, Brother. You are nothing if not cold and calculating. You're not afraid to get your hands dirty. There are any number of ways you could have gotten rid of her, and there's no one better at concealing their tracks than you.' Gawain persisted, giving Tristan a perplexed look.

 

Tristan was an expert at using his hair as a shield to hide his thoughts, and he did so now as he kept his gaze focused on his hands as he buckled on his belt. Had he not been asking himself the same damn question since he met her? There was at least something he could admit to. It might be enough of a truth to satisfy his insatiable Brother.

 

 

'She got within five meters of me before I knew she was there. She attacked me with six inch hunting knife...' he let the memory run through his mind.

 

 

All her quiet anger and spirit lending her strength and speed. How she had whirled and danced around him, how some of her blows had even made contact. Though it was all for nought in the end, and she must have known that she would lose before she had even set upon him. He had bested her easily.

 

 

'When she had lost, she accepted her defeat...honourably. Perhaps...' Tristan struggled to articulate his thoughts, 'Perhaps...it was not her time to die.'

 

 

Gawain looked at Tristan thoughtfully.

 

 

'You admire her?' he concluded.

 

 

'I admire her spirit.' Tristan bit back gruffly.

 

 

Gawain, sensing he would be pushing his luck too far by pressing the matter further, let the subject drop.

 

 

'Well I don't know about you but I feel invigorated,' he declared gleefully, stretching his arms out wide and taking a deep, satisfying breath. 'We should do this again soon.'

 

 

'Now..., ' he continued, frowning,'...I wonder if that snake Lancelot has managed to get in to Heather's undergarments yet or if there's still some time for me to exercise those other body parts that have sadly been neglected.'

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Tristan arose before dawn and had Saratos saddled and out the front gates before the first rays of the sun had reached the fort walls. Feeling the need to blow the cobwebs off both himself and his steed he set them at a hard gallop down the trail leading to the river. Tristan wished it was farther away so that he could have enjoyed his flight of freedom for a little longer, but all too soon the meandering waters came into view.

 

 

There was no need to tether the big grey, he wouldn't stray too far and always came back at Tristan's call. Leaving Saratos to his own devices, Tristan quickly stripped off and waded into the deep, slow moving waters. The cold was a shock at first and slightly took his breath away. Bracing himself he submerged his body entirely. Though the weather was turning colder there was no danger of losing a toe just yet. Still, he didn't spend long on his ministrations before clambering back up onto the grassy bank, invigorated and very much awake.

 

 

As he quickly dried himself off his attention was sought by the cry of his raptor companion. Tamura flew overhead before circling in a wide arc to descend upon his waiting arm.

 

 

“Have you no decency?” Tristan grumbled with a slight wince as her claws dug into his exposed flesh. He gave her a friendly knock under her chin to which she replied with a cackling chirrup.

 

 

“Silly girl, away with you.” he said with affection as he raised his arm sharply to launch her back into the air. Tamura gave a shrill and cheeky call as she took wing. He watched her for a moment as she circled once more before heading on her way. It was not the first time he wished he could sprout wings and take to the air with her. When he had found her as a fledgling, grounded with an injured wing, he took it upon himself to nurse her back to health. He recalled his mother's tales of the the tribes East of Sarmatia who bonded with eagles, hunting as a unit from horseback.

It took patience and perseverance, both traits Tristan had in abundance, but the connection was made and lasting. He did not tie her to him, and she returned to his hand willingly.

 

 

He gratefully donned his clothing again, his lighter cloak not quite suitable for the frigid breeze that was blowing. Unfortunately his heavier Winter cloak was currently not at his disposal. Saratos came obediently at his summons and he set them back in the direction of the fort. This time he let the horse take the lead and they made their progress languidly. As was the norm for him these days, his thoughts were occupied with the Pict girl.

 

 

His 'conversation' with Gawain had served to untangle his thoughts somewhat. Tristan was never easy on himself, and, though it pained him, he had to admit his growing attachment to the woman. His growing _attraction_ to her.

 

 

Of course, admitting these barbed...feelings...was ultimately useless. There was no circumstance where he could act upon them. They stood on opposite ends of a battlefield. His masters were her enemies. From the first instance their interaction had not been as equals. He had subdued her, bent her to his will and caged her. He held power over her, and thus was in no position to pursue any delusions or fanciful thoughts. Tristan resolved to harden his thawing heart once again. These sentiments made him weak, obscured his judgement and clouded his vision. Her fate was out of his hands now anyway. Whatever Arthur decided, she would be out of his sight soon enough, and so he endeavoured to purge his mind of her too. It was with grim resolve that he reached the entrance to the fort.

 

 

..ooOoo..

 

 

 

Kyla had woken in the night and after straining her hearing for some minutes and detecting no movement outside felt it safe enough to finally empty her bladder. Her movements were stiff and painful but she managed as quickly as she could before returning to the cot and wrapping herself once again in the Sarmatian's warm cloak. She didn't think it possible to fall back to sleep, but the next thing she was aware of was being abruptly awoken by sound of wood scrapping against wood as the heavy beam across the cell door was lifted. She noted the early morning light that dissected the room in half. Hastily, and with much effort, Klya managed to sit upright on her bedding as the cell door opened. She imagined she was a dishevelled sight to behold.

 

 

It was hard to tell but Kyla got the impression that Tristan was in fouler humour than he had been the previous evening. She barely untangled her arms from the cloth in time to catch the flat bread he tossed to her.

 

 

'Eat quick' he said gruffly, avoiding eye contact. She didn't know him well enough to make a call, but he had never avoided her eyes before, she noted it as unusual. Gingerly she began to chew on the bread. It was wonderfully nutty and full of seeds. She took the time to consider Tristan as he leaned against the door frame with his wide back to her. His arms were crossed and his weight was shifted on to one leg. He surveyed the area in front of the cell as she observed him.

 

 

Kyla jealously noted that his long hair hung dark and wet upon his head, the run off water soaking through the collar of his cloak making it appear darker. Kyla longed to bathe, to wash away the past couple of days, take a comb to her hair and make some attempt to tame it's wild curls. She felt grimy and tired and a swim in the lively river that ran by her village seemed like just the tonic for her. They both knew she was no threat to him, but it still stung her pride a little that he stood there so brazenly with his back an open target. Kyla broke off one end of the bread, her eyes narrowing conspiratorially, as she tossed it up in the air a couple of times to get a feel for the weight. She continued to chew thoughtfully as she stretched her hand back slightly, aching to let the food fly. It was so very tempting. Thinking better of the situation she rather grumpily tore another chunk of the bread off instead with her teeth.

 

 

It didn't take long for Jols to arrive and give her the once over. Kyla was getting quite fond of the man, with his gentle manner and easy smile. He tutted at the left over tea that sat cold on the floor and gave her a look that was reminiscent of her Aunt Iseabail. A look that said 'What am I going to do with you?'. He quickly checked over her various injuries, redressing some and leaving others, asking her questions in regards to how much pain she felt as he went along, to which she answered monosyllabically.

 

 

Kyla almost wished her examination lasted longer because it delayed the inevitable, her meeting with Arthur. As Jols finished up packing away his things she noticed Tristan move away from his post at the cell door to greet Galahad and the short, surly Knight she'd encountered when they'd first arrived who had seemed in the throes of inebriation. From their greetings she gathered his name was Bors.

 

 

Jols surprised Kyla by giving her hand a small squeeze and a sad smile as he rose to leave.

Kyla had surmised that Tristan's short nod to Jols as they passed in the doorway probably translated as a 'Thank You'. He really didn't waste his words.

 

 

Tristan had no words for her either. Kyla stood slowly to face him. Tristan's cloak, that had been draped over her shoulders, slipping off as she rose, shedding the false sense of protection it had given her. Kyla's stomach dropped with the realisation that she was finally going to meet Arthur and learn her fate. The world suddenly didn't feel so big. For a moment it felt like it only consisted of her and the Knight who stared at her so intensely. Kyla's heart felt like a bird caged within her chest, fluttering to get out. She matched his stare and held her head high. She would meet her fate head on. She would not flinch.

 

 

Kyla took back some semblance of control. She closed the distance between her and Tristan. Her movements were a little stiff but she did her best to mask her pain.

 

 

In all her life, Kyla never thought she would have been able to stand so defiantly in front of one of the fearsome Sarmatian Knights. She had always hoped that when her mettle was tested she would not bring shame upon herself and that she'd rise to the occasion.

 

 

Tristan's eyes were partially shaded behind his wet hair. Kyla was taken back by how his look had grown more stormy with every step she took towards him, emotions roiling in the dark that did not show on his face. She couldn't decipher what she was seeing, to her it translated as anger and … pain.

 

 

Her final step took her within inches of him.

 

 

Tristan's gaze dropped to her lips as she spoke.

Her voice quiet, but not wavering.

 

 

“I'm ready.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

Though he made sure to mask the feeling from showing on his face, it gave Tristan no pleasure to bind the woman's wrists together once more. She held her hands obligingly still as he wound the short rope around her outstretched arms. Though her bandages would cushion the chaffing he knew it would hurt. Perhaps that was why he didn't tie them as tightly as he normally. He was annoyed with himself for making the concession, but couldn't bring himself to tighten them further.

 

 

Tristan gripped the Pict's arm above the elbow, careful to take her right, uninjured arm, and proceeded to march her out of the cell, his mood foul. She winced slightly as they crossed the threshold, raising her hands to shield her eyes from the morning sunshine.

 

 

The Pict claimed she was ready, but was Tristan?

 

 

Galahad and Bors both eyed up Tristan's charge, with rather different expressions. Galahad, with his usual genial countenance, spared the woman a grin. Bors, on the other hand, squinted at her frankly, as if seeing her for the first time. In general he was not the best company first thing in the morning.

 

 

Both of them were armed, at his request. Tristan was less concerned with the Woad trying one last attempt to escape than with Cassius or his ilk taking a fancy to an act of retaliation. It wasn't very likely, most people wouldn't cross the Sarmatian Knights, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

 

Tristan didn't feel as optimistic about the Woad's fate as Galahad's reassuring smile seemed to imply. All of Arthur's decisions were scrutinised mercilessly from afar. Rome always seemed quite interested in his affairs and it appeared that he was required to send back more written reports than others of his rank. Tristan swore he spent more time at his desk, squinting at parchment by fire light, than actually getting to perform the duties he was there to carry out. Arthur was not short of enemies and detractors, people who coveted his standing in the ranks and longed to take control of Badon Hill and run it as they saw fit. Arthur was Briton born, but Roman through and through. If he showed any sympathy or leniency to Rome's enemies it would be decried as weak, perhaps even so far as conspiratorial.

 

 

“My fuckin' 'ead is poundin'”, Bors grumbled, “Why did Arthur want to talk at this Gods forsaken time o the mornin'. Doesn't he know I need my beauty sleep?”

 

 

“Bors, there are not enough hours in the night that could help improve that mug of yours”,Galahad retorted jovially.

 

 

Tristan was in no mood for chit chat and moved forward with his prisoner so that the two Knights fell into step behind them. He stole a glance at the Woad, who was tense and slightly stooped in pain, but managing to keep up with his stride without causing him to drag her along. She was putting on a brave face, he'd give her that. But Tristan could feel the thrum of tension that vibrated through her body, communicated through his loose hold on her arm. The sooner he got her to Arthur, the sooner she would no longer be his burden.

 

 

“When we're finally through with this miserable Wall I'm gonna spend my nights drinkin', screwin' and fightin'... probably in that order.” Bors continued, “ I'll sleep all fuckin day, and send out all my bastards to make me some coin, and give their Da a moments peace.”

 

 

“Well you won't have much longer to wait. Jols said Arthur received a rider from Londinium late last night. Tristan, did you hear? Do you think it has to do with our release papers?” Galahad asked hopefully.

 

 

“Who knows” Tristan mumbled. He caught the sidelong look that the Pict was giving him.

''Now's not the time for speculation”, he threw back over his shoulder, with a pointed nod towards the woman who was far too intuitive for her own good.

 

 

''I guess not'' Galahad replied, some of his exuberance diminishing.

 

 

Tristan had been successfully keeping any thoughts of their impending exodus from Britain at bay. To be truthful he didn't quite know how he felt about it. Some of his brothers had been talking about their plans on and off over the past months, excitement building amongst them as they would finally be free of all obligation to Rome. Well, unless they had the misfortune to father sons. The final sting in their duty to Sarmatia's conquerors.

 

 

Currently, with the wildling woman in tow, thoughts of packing up and travelling for months across sea and land to return to his homeland seemed decidedly appealing. He could leave all of this sorry mess behind and never look back.

 

 

However, nothing got done quickly when Rome was involved. Though they were in their final year of servitude there was no telling which day or month their freedom would finally be granted. Receiving word from Londinium was sporadic, but not altogether unusual. For all they knew Arthur was just receiving the latest pontifications from on high regarding the right and proper way for a Christian to behave. It didn't do to dwell on speculations.

 

 

As the group wove their way through the narrow streets towards Arthur's central courtyard, the townspeople going about their mornings work made space for the men and strange woman. As before, they were obviously garnering extra attention by the looks they were receiving. Most people were making their way to the market, either with wares and foods to sell, or empty baskets ready to be filled with what was needed for the day.

 

 

Tristan attention was drawn further up their path ahead, where the streets opened up a bit more. There was some hubbub happening. This was the area you would usually find entertainers; jugglers, singers and musicians, vying for the attention and coins of the crowd. Tristan eyed the small raucous gathering suspiciously. Something didn't feel right. There seemed to be at least five Roman soldiers in attendance, with members of the public occasionally giving a small laugh, or voicing encouragement to whoever was entertaining them.

 

 

“Tristan, what's going on?” Galahad voiced behind him, echoing Tristan's concern that something was off.

 

 

“I don't know” he replied quietly, determined to find out.

 

As Tristan made a beeline for the small gathering he began to overhear what the townsfolk were saying.

 

 

“...tryin' to scale the wall...”

 

 

“...you part squirrel, boy?! Haha!”

 

“...go on...”, this one was punctuated with the sound of a slap that elicited a small whimper.'' ..answer the man!.' There was more laughter.

 

 

Finally close enough to see between the onlookers as they passed, Tristan spied a Roman guard, his grip tightly holding aloft the wrist of a boy who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years of age. The boy looked terrified, scrabbling at the soldier's hold with his free hand, trying desperately to free himself. He was dirty and unkempt looking, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and one whole side of his face was showing the early signs of bruising. He was Woad.

 

 

“..too scrawny to feed to the lions! Bwahahaha!”

 

 

The Sarmatians didn't like to overstep their bounds. In general what the Roman legion got up to was of no interest to the Knights, and not their place to comment on. Though the tinge of cruelty didn't sit well with him, Tristan made to move on. In one deadly swift move, that he would later admit took him unawares, the girl at his side wrenched her arm free of his grasp. His split second delay in reaction meant that when he grabbed for her again he missed her by a hairs breadth.

 

 

“Hey!” Bors called from behind him as the Pict shoved her way passed the bystanders, elbowing passed disgruntled men and women who called out angrily to her, followed by shocked cries as they took in her appearance.

 

 

Everything went a little chaotic at that point.

 

 

Tristan was hot on her heels though, shoving his way through the crowd, and witnessed, with some satisfaction, the shock on the Roman's face as the woman, hands gripped together as if in prayer, threw her entire weight behind an almighty blow right to his face. All three fell in a heap to the ground with the force of her attack.

 

With a quickness that belied her injuries the wildling woman delivered a powerful kick, navigating their tangled mess of limbs to land squarely on the soldier's stomach, debilitating him further. In a moment of deja vu, Tristan spotted her quick hands close around the dagger at the prone man's belt as she rolled herself away from him. She was back on her feet before the other soldiers had even begun to react after their initial shock.

 

 

The Woad boy had barely scrambled upright again before she forcefully shoved him behind her. The sharp blade clasped between her bound wrists now swayed menacingly from side to side as she tried to keep all of her enemies in her sights, backing away a few steps, placing herself between the crowd and the boy. In the blink of an eye Tristan was transported back once more to their first encounter. This time, however, he could sense the terror that was coursing through her, hidden just behind her feral, snarling stance. Blood dripped anew from her bandages, and her body was smudged in dirt once more from her tussle. She was vibrant and wild, untamed. Tristan was put in mind of a cornered vixen protecting her pups.

 

 

It was as if everyone had momentarily held their breath and forgotten how to react. Just as suddenly, as if the spell had broken, the remaining Roman soldiers had their blades drawn and were advancing on her.

 

 

“Fucking Woad bitch!”

“Get her!”

 

 

“Tristan?”, Galahad questioned as Tristan stepped away from the reinvigorated crowd, into the impending fray.

 

 

Within seconds of noticing him all the Romans had paused in their agitated advance as Tristan casually placed himself between the Woads and their would be executioners. The soldiers all lowered their weapons in confusion as he gave them a hard stare from behind his fall of hair. He could see that Galahad and Bors had followed him out into the open space, as he knew they would. Happy that the Romans had indeed stopped for now, some of them clearly eager to see what he had planned for the Woads, Tristan turned his back on them, facing down the woman who's white knuckled grip on the dagger only slightly trembled. Blood ran down her left arm, to drip slowly with a little 'pat-pat' from her elbow, staining the dirt below her a darker shade of brown.

 

 

Tristan slowly took a step towards her. The boy behind her clung on to the back of her tunic, peering slightly around her to look upon Tristan with equal parts awe and fear. With a scowling face, Kyla forced them to take another step back away from the Sarmatian. Her darkly framed green eyes spoke to him of inevitability, of a dance that was nearing it's end. With his next unhurried step, Tristan placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. The woman's eyes darted down to follow the movement. When they returned to his face they did not lack any more determination than before.

 

 

With one more languid step Tristan got closer to the point of her dagger, and sufficiently far enough away from the Roman blades behind him. As he had on countless occasions leading up to this point, he studied her. She was fearsome, in her own unpredictable way. She would not make that last move towards him to attack, he was confident. She was just more than ready to defend herself, and the boy, most likely unto death. The situation was all too achingly familiar.

 

 

There were a few routes Tristan could have taken to bring this drama to a close, but as soon as he'd stepped forward he knew which way it would inevitably play out. He spared the Pictish woman one last glance, trying to convey to her to reign in any urges she might have to plunge a dagger in his back, as he turned once more to face the legionnaires. Tristan adopted a relaxed stance, one thumb hooked onto his belt, the other, rather tellingly, still resting on his sword.

 

 

Since it was not in the Sarmatian's nature to interfere with the daily coming and goings of the other military men stationed at the fort, it was with some looks of disbelief that he was greeted with when he faced them.

 

 

“Do we have a problem here?” Tristan question was quiet and was loaded with menace.

 

 

His brothers unhurriedly moved in to action. Galahad came to stand by his side, feigning a similarly relaxed stance, while Bors brazenly took out his twelve inch hunting knife and began to clean the dirt from under his nails in a disinterested manner, pausing only to snort up some phlegm and spit it noisily at the ground.

 

 

Tristan could feel the barely contained energy behind him and though it made his shoulders itch to have such an open target on his back he knew it was important to not show that to the Romans.

 

 

'”Kyla...”

 

 

Tristan's head turned slightly towards the name that was uttered softly out of the young boys lips, quickly shushed quiet again by the older female.

 

 

The Roman that the girl had launched herself at had finally gotten to his feet, looking no worse for wear after the altercation, other than the murderous look on his flushed face. His fellow soldiers looked decidedly unsure of themselves and the situation in general, never expecting the turn in events. The crowd had hushed and rather smartly widened the circle around the main players.

 

 

“We caught that dirty Woad pup trying to scale the wall from their side. We seized him fair and square, he's ours to do with as we see fit.” he blustered, lacking any confidence behind his seemingly firm words.

 

 

His fellow soldiers cast unsure looks amongst themselves, already beginning to distance themselves from the situation. All but the Roman with the hurt pride, and possible hurt coccyx, began sheathing their weapons. At the sound of metal on leather it was clear that it was also dawning on the lead soldier that this was one of those times you got to choose your battles. He threw a none too friendly look at his unhelpful comrades.

 

 

“I think we can take it from 'ere, boys” Bors said, leaving no room for debate as he proceeded to pick at something between his teeth with the tip of his very large and very deadly knife.

 

 

With one last dirty look, the scorned Roman turned on his heels, scattering his fellow soldiers and any townsfolk who got in his way as he left. As the Roman soldiers left it only took seconds for the crowd to disperse, not wanting the attention of the Sarmatian Knights to fall upon them.

 

 

Satisfied that the immediate danger had passed, Tristan returned his focus on the Woad woman behind him. Her arms had dropped significantly, so that the blade was no longer pointed at his heart....though he didn't care for it pointing vaguely at his crotch any better.

 

 

She looked...relieved? Confused? Definitely wary, though that seemed to be a default for her. The young Pictish lad at her back couldn't decide which of the Knights to keep his awe inspired gaze on. He made a move to step out from behind her shadow but she firmly elbowed him back into place.

 

 

Tristan had to work to rein in the triumphant little smile that desperately tugged at his lips.

 

 

Names held power, and now he possessed hers.

 

 

“Drop the knife... _Kyla”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's this site caught up with where I have left off on fanfiction.net
> 
> As a follower of many a fine fanfiction that gets posted at a snail's pace I understand the frustration of waiting for new chapters, just know they will eventually come along.
> 
> Very glad I've finally got to this scene though. Primarily so I can stop referring to Kyla as the 'woad/pict' etc from Tristan's POV! He's been hungry to know her name for a long time. 
> 
> About time Bors showed up properly and did a little work too.
> 
> I think you might know who the determined little boy is ;)
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts on the story, every bit of encouragement really does fuel my writing.


	22. Chapter 22

 

“Drop the knife... _Kyla_.”

 

 

She did so immediately, as he demanded. Kyla was beyond caring that Tristan finally possessed her name, try as she had to conceal it from him. Her only concern now was for Calum. Brave, foolish Calum. She could no longer be careless with her words and actions, not now that she had him to protect. In the grand scheme of things she placed little value on her own life. But Calum, his was precious, his was something to fight for, to die for. What use was pride when it could hurt the ones you held most dear.

 

 

 

“ _ **Stay behind me. Do. Not. Move.”**_ she warned Calum sharply, leaving no room for argument.

Kyla willingly stepped within reach of Tristan, holding her hands out in front of her.

 

 

 

“Please... unbind me. I swear you'll get no more trouble from me..” she entreated him franticly, “.. _please_..”she whispered more quietly but with no less ferocity.

 

 

There was a moment's hesitation as she watched Tristan's calculating warm eyes weighing her up as she willed and willed him to believe her. He took a half step closer to her and began to loosen the knot he'd not long ago tied. Relief flooded through her. Before he unravelled the rope completely Tristan made a point of pausing, catching her eyes with a look of unspoken warning to behave. She nodded imperceptibly in return as he unwound the final length.

Kyla turned immediately to Calum, dropping to her knees in front of him, her hands on his shoulders.

 

 

“ _ **Calum, what are doing here!?”**_ she couldn't help but shake his shoulders slightly in rebuke. She moved her hands up to cup his face, concern etched over hers as she she ran one gentle thumb over the blossoming bruise. Calum sullenly shrugged her off, his glassy eyes refusing to make contact with hers as he angrily kept up a brave face.

 

 

“ _ **I knew you weren't dead.”**_ _he_ said fiercely. _**“I did what you asked, I waited and then I ran all the way home to warn them. Frang argued with the elders, he knew you'd been lead to the Wall, he tracked the horse all the way back to the edge of the forest but no one was doing anything. All they did was argue, while every minute you were in danger. They said we had to be smart. They said we couldn't rush in, we couldn't be foolish. I had to do something!”,**_ Calum wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve.

 

 

When he regained the courage to meet her eyes, **“** _ **...I had to do something”**_ _,_ he said more quietly. _**“I had supplies. I brought food, and rope, but they took my satchel from me when they caught me.”**_

 

 

Kyla was equally endeared and angered by him.

 

 

“ _ **Calum...they were right. You should have listened. You should never have come. We cannot endanger more of our people for the sake of one.”**_ she tried to explain uselessly.

 

 

Though saying it in the abstract was easy, and she felt that it was absolutely true in her case, Kyla couldn't apply the same cold logic to Calum. He was just a kid, his whole life ahead of him. He needed saving, not her. They had to be organising something to get him back. Frang and Iseabail must surely have noticed his absence by now. Kyla would do everything in her power, every and _anything_ in her power, so that he could survive. She'd become the great whore of Badon Hill if it meant he could walk free.

 

 

“ _ **You would have come for me”**_ Calum said with a solemn certainty.

 

 

Kyla sighed, how could she argue with that? She threw her arms around him quickly, squeezing him tightly to her for a moment.

 

 

“ _ **We're gonna be okay.”**_ she promised vehemently, keeping her voice low, before releasing him and getting stiffly to her feet. She turned to face Tristan again.

 

 

“Take me to Arthur.” she said grimly.

 

 

“ **...Arthur?”** Kyla ignored Calum's question.

 

 

Tristan just nodded thoughtfully and turned on his heel to lead the way.

 

 

“Any other stray Woads you wanna pick up on the way, Tristan?” Bors asked sarcastically, bringing up the rear with Galahad. Kyla kept her eyes focused forward, just glad that wicked looking hunting knife had been returned to it sheath.

 

 

She had to be brave for Calum.

 

 

She knew that he had too much pride, even at seven years of age, to allow her to wrap her arm around him protectively as she wanted to do, so instead she gave him a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. She intended to drop her hand again but couldn't bring herself to do it, and since Calum didn't shrug her off she assumed he was shook enough to allow the small act of comfort and solidarity.

 

 

“ _ **Who are they? They don't look like the other soldiers”** _ Calum asked softly, eyeing up Bors in particular, as they made their way from the busy market square.

 

 

Kyla wasn't sure if she should tell him. _**“...Sarmatian Knights”**_

 

 

Calum would have stumbled with shock if Kyla's grip had not been there to steady him.

 

 

He was quiet for some time as they were marched onwards.

 

 

“ _ **Are they the ones who hurt you?”**_ he asked seriously. Kyla's heart broke for him.

 

 

“ _ **Calum, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. We're going to be fine”**_ she said, more to convince herself than him. Now that the adrenaline was leaving her system she found herself shaking slightly and every one of her aches and pains were making themselves known.

 

 

Kyla had reacted on pure instinct when she had spotted what had been entertaining the horrid townsfolk. Tristan was taller than her and it was only when he had made to move on that a gap opened up between two shifting people and Kyla could see for herself. It was like some awful nightmare. Her little brother, blood be damned, battered and in the clutches of a Roman soldier. A circle of sneering, snarling Roman scum surrounding him. He had never looked so small and fragile to her as he did in that instant.

 

 

A venomous fury overcame Kyla in that moment and it was pure luck that Tristan was just distracted enough that she was able to wrench herself from his grip.

 

 

All of her hurts were forgotten. Her vision narrowed down to the soldier and the boy. Kyla really had no thoughts beyond taking him down, getting his knife and getting Calum out of his reach. When she finally had Calum at her back, knife pointed hopelessly at anyone and everyone in her sights, she was at a loss what to do.

 

 

The soldiers had refocused and had drawn their swords, the odds were stacked against her but she dared any one of them to try and lay another finger on Calum while she still drew breath.

 

 

And then Tristan had stepped forward, and Kyla's blade had found a new target to focus on. They had finally come full circle, the Scout and the Pict, facing off once more. He stood between her and the Roman soldiers, who at least had paused in their advance.

 

 

She could feel Calum's grip on the back of her tunic, and as he moved to see around her she elbowed him back to stay behind her. She couldn't afford to be distracted when it came to Tristan.

 

 

He was lethal, she knew this. She would almost have rather faced anyone else at the fort than him, yet it also seemed fitting that it would end this way.

He was ten time, one hundred times the fighter she was. If she could distract him enough that Calum could make a run for it then she would die happily at the end of his blade.

 

 

Tristan was all that was cool and calm and reserved. From the steps he took towards her, to the casual way his hand rested on his sword. His eyes though, his eyes spoke a different message. As with their many interactions up to this point, Kyla found she either read his intentions loud and clear or could not decipher them at all. When he had turned his back to her, placing himself and his fellow Knights pointedly between them and the Roman soldiers, Kyla was near dumbfounded.

 

 

It made little sense to her that the Knights would protect them from the soldiers, weren't they all on the same side? She was certainly willing to accept the assistance whole heartedly though. A tightness loosened from around her chest as the Roman legionnaires had finally moved on, sending thanks to whatever God or Goddess was looking over them.

 

 

When she had sworn to Tristan that she would be no trouble to them, she meant it. Her life was forfeit, Calum was the only thing worth fighting for now.

 

 

Kyla could see beyond Tristan that they were approaching an enclosed courtyard with metal gates guarding the front. She was almost numb to the wonder of the architecture surrounding her but she still managed to be impressed.

 

 

They entered the building and Tristan led them down a long corridor, flaming burners of oil lining the way. As they passed an open door Kyla stole a glance into a huge, opulent room, the walls painted and decorated, a mighty round table taking up the centre surrounded by many chairs.

Hadn't she heard some tale regarding the Knights, their leader and a table just like the one she'd just seen?

 

 

Tristan stopped at the double doors at the end of the hall. He cast one unreadable look back at Kyla before knocking loudly for admittance. Kyla's heart rate picked up apace. This was it. The legendary Arthur. The lauded leader and warrior. The man who would decide her fate...and now Calum's too. She couldn't help giving his small shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

 

 

Kyla was surprised and relieved to see the door being opened by Jols. Unlike Tristan, he wore his emotions openly upon his face and his smile dropped immediately when his eyes met Kyla's and took in her unkempt appearance. She could tell he just about kept himself from tutting. It was with some confusion he ushered them all through the door, including the unexpected Calum.

 

 

The room beyond was the opposite of the great hall Kyla had glimpsed. It was clean and functional, undecorated and flooded with light. The small windows were angled to make the most of the sunlight that reached them. Braziers of oil were dotted along the darker side of the room set into little alcoves. Sitting behind a large oak desk, every last inch covered with clay tablets and parchment, sat Arthur, one scroll still clasped in his hand as if they had just interrupted him whilst reading it.

 

 

Tristan took up a position near the window to their right, Galahad and Bors to the left. Klya and Calum stood in the centre of the room as they faced the Roman. He was certainly a handsome man and a look about him that told you he was a born leader. He had a ...'presence'.

 

 

Arthur warmly greeted his Knights by name, making eye contact with each in turn accompanied by a small nod.

 

 

“Bors. Galahad.” And finally, with a little more whimsy, “Tristan.”

 

 

Arthur's intense focus then landed on Kyla and she tried not to wilt under his scrutiny. His glance dropped to Calum, who manoeuvred himself slightly behind Kyla under the weight of the leader's attention.

 

 

“And who do we have here?” he enquired of his Scout.

 

 

“There was an... incident... on our way here from the cells. We may have ruffled the feathers of a couple of Rome's finest” Tristan supplied vaguely.

 

 

Arthur shot his men a slightly scolding look, dropping the scroll in his hand to be added to the rest

of the pile, and sighed.

 

 

“Do I need to smooth over relations between my Knights and the rest of the garrison once again? Twice in as many days, Tristan. That's a record, even for you“

 

 

Tristan shrugged in a non-committal fashion.

 

 

Arthur's attention returned to Kyla. He took in her battered appearance. Every bump and bruise, every cut and scrape was noticed and noted by serious hazel green eyes under a serious brow.

 

 

“I'm led to believe you speak Latin?”

 

 

“I do” Kyla attempted to stand proudly and tall in front if the legendary figure, but it was all a ruse. Calum's appearance had thrown all of her cool reserve out the window.

 

 

Throwing caution to the wind she took a step closer to the desk. Kyla heard the slight reactionary movements behind her from the Knights, but Arthur remained unfazed behind his desk, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. Kyla launched into her appeal, all thoughts of composure abandoned.

 

 

“My brother. He cannot be held responsible for his actions”, she began in a rush. “He is _young_ and …” she hesitated to say 'foolish' as it wasn't quite true, “...headstrong. His sole reason for being here is my presence. If I was not here he would never have gone near the Wall. Please do not punish him for the strength of his heart, and where it has lead him astray.”

 

 

Arthur placed one elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his knuckles against his lips thoughtfully for a moment as his focus shifted to Calum.

 

 

“And do you speak Latin?” he said, letting his hand drop again.

 

 

Kyla glanced worriedly at Calum who, realising he had been addressed, had also taken a slight step forward. He looked curious, and not nearly as scared as he should have been. Kyla wasn't sure if she preferred he be terrified and cautious, or naive and less anxious.

 

 

“He does not.” she supplied for him.

 

 

“ _ **What is he saying?”**_ Calum asked inquisitively.

 

 

“ _ **Be quiet”**_ Kyla chastised.

 

 

“ _ **He's not as big as I thought he'd be”** , _he muttered quietly.

 

 

“ _ **Calum!”**_ Kylatried, and failed, to keep her tone neutral.

 

 

“ _ **Do you think that's the sword?”,** _ Calum asked, indicating the scabbard that was in view slung over the backrest of Arthur's chair. **“** _ **Is that Excalibur?”**_

 

 

“ _ **Shut up!”**_ she hissed through clenched teeth. He didn't realise how precarious the situation was, but she did.

 

 

In all of her years, Kyla would never have thought that she would do what she did now.

She dropped to her knees in front of the Roman Commander, her hands opened wide in supplication.

 

 

“Please. I beg of you. Do what you will of me, but... _please_ , have mercy on my brother. Let him go and he will never darken your door again.”

 

 

Arthur did not appear arrogant, or superior, when he replied, “Boys can be dangerous in their own right...and boys grow in to men. Men who pick up swords, men who oppose the might of Rome.”

 

 

Kyla could not argue, to do so would be to lie. She searched for a placating retort. Anything to convince him that Calum was no threat to him or his fort.

 

 

At a loss for what to say, Kyla opted for honesty.

 

 

“What will it take to convince you?”

 

 

Arthur shifted forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together lightly.

 

 

“If you answer my questions truthfully...I will return your brother across the Wall.” he offered.

 

 

Kyla's heart skipped a beat.

 

 

“Do I have your word?”. She didn't think the word of a Roman was worth shit, but it was all she could ask of him.

 

 

“You do”

 

 

“And no harm will come to him?” she clarified, still not trusting that there wasn't a catch.

 

 

“I swear. One of my Knights will personally escort him as far as is safe for them to do so.”

 

 

Kyla looked to where Tristan casually leaned against the wall for confirmation. As per usual he had an unreadable expression on his face. He met her eyes though...and nodded slightly. She cared not that she was upon her knees, looking for his assistance. Pride had no place now in her repatoire. She had no basis for trusting Arthur, but in some strange twist of fate she had come, in her own way, to place some trust in Tristan.

 

 

When she turned to face Arthur again she could see he had noted the interaction. She rose to her feet, and reached her hand out across the large oak expanse and the myriad of tablets and scrolls that it was burdened with. Her hand hung in the air for a second before Lucius Artorius Castus rose to his feet to seal their deal with his large callused hand. His grip was firm, but he did not feel the need that some men did to overtly display their strength in such situations as Kyla had found herself in before. She met his eyes, and she hoped that her look conveyed that the powers of all of the Gods and Goddesses would be rained down upon him if he should break his word. Some men might have thought her 'cute' for her seriousness but Arthur treated her as solemnly as he would another leader. Satisfied that their deal had been struck

 

 

“Ask your questions. I'll answer what I can”

 

 

Arthur took his seat once more, sighing.

 

 

“Your people have always tested the Wall. I can understand this. Sometimes a show of strength is an invitation for that strength to be tested. Recently, though, we have had reason to note that these attacks have become more frequent.”

 

 

“I am not involved in any raids on the Wall, nor do I have any knowledge of such raids happening.”

 

 

“Are you saying these attacks are individual, their frequency coincidental?'

 

 

Kyla thought of Taran and Drest and their boasting. If men from her village where looking for ways across the Wall it was being done clandestinely. She had thought they were all talk with their hints and insinuations but it was becoming clear that they were somehow involved in these attacks Arthur spoke of. She tried to keep the anger she felt at their stupidity for drawing attention to her village from showing on her face. How much could she say without drawing the Romans attention down upon them all?

 

 

“I would imagine so.'”

 

 

“They are not part of some larger scheme?.”

 

 

Kyla frowned at the idea. “Not that I know of...though it would not surprise me if they were. You have taken our lands, murdered our people. We only want to be left alone in peace.”

 

 

“It's a funny kind of 'peace'.” Arthur replied seriously. He continued, bluntly, “Are there orders from your ruling Council to prepare for an organised attack?”

 

 

“I am not privy to the thoughts of the Council.” Seeing this answer was not to Arthur's liking, she elaborated, “ I am not aware of any orders that have come from them to prepare for an organised attack, but then, I am no one of consequence, such plans would not be shared with me.”

 

 

“You have been trained to fight though.” he insisted.

 

 

“Those who seek such skills are taught, yes.” It was not as organised and constricting as Arthur seemed to think. If you wanted to learn to fight, you were trained how to fight. If you didn't, so be it, you were trained in some other skill; hunting, smithing, weaving, cooking.

 

 

As far as Kyla suspected about her friends they were just playing at being 'hard' men. Perhaps taking unnecessary risks, showing how 'brave' they can be by taunting the Roman guards. It was the silly pissing contest they had always gotten up to throughout their teens. They were always getting in to bother.

 

 

“How many people are there in your village?”

 

 

Kyla hesitated to answer at first. Should she lie? If she said it was larger than it was it might make her village seem like a threat considering it's relevant proximity to the Wall. If she down played the numbers would that make it an easy target? She stuck with the truth, at a loss for any 'better' answer.

 

 

“Roughly two hundred.”

 

 

“If they are looking for a weakness in our defences they will not find it here.” Arthur warned.

 

 

Kyla did not know if she was required to respond to the statement so she just nodded her acceptance.

 

 

“Why did you attack my Scout?” he asked, seemingly out of curiosity.

 

 

Kyla noticed Tristan shift slightly in her peripheral vision. Why wouldn't any Pict attack an enemy in their territory?

 

 

“I know what you Romans are capable of.” Kyla thought of Calum's parents, and the countless others who had died at Roman hands, and couldn't quite keep the contempt she felt towards the foreign invaders from her face. “We protect our own.”

 

 

Arthur's calculating eyes slid down to consider Calum.

 

 

“The boy was with you.”

 

 

It wasn't so much a question as a statement, but Kyla confirmed it with a short nod.

 

 

Arthur sat back in his chair, contemplating the two Britons in front of him. Kyla noticed that he glanced at the scroll he had been reading when they had entered before settling his heavy gaze on her again.

 

 

“I'd imagine you've grown a little tired of Roman hospitality by now?”

 

 

Kyla was unsure if the question was rhetorical so she stayed quiet, waiting to see where Arthur went with it.

 

 

“I want you to deliver a message to your village...and see that it gets back to Merlin. The patrols on the Wall will be doubled. There will be no mercy shown to raiders. Back...the fuck...off.”

 

 

Kyla stood stuck to the spot, dumbfounded, unsure if she had heard him right, and what it implied.

 

 

When he got no response from her, Arthur clarified.

 

 

“I'm sending you both home.”

 

 

 

**...oooOOooo...**

 

 

 

**A/N**

 

**Though it may not seem in character for Kyla to supplicate herself in front of a Roman general, I do think it is absolutely in keeping with her character that she would throw herself at his mercy if it meant any chance of Calum walking free.**

 

**Would love to hear your thoughts!**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Ch.23

 

**The Woad In The Woods**

**Chapter 23**

 

 

 

Decision made.

That was that then.

Arthur was sending them back across the Wall.

Tristan quietly weighed up by how he was feeling with this outcome. He felt like a tightness had been removed from his chest, one he hadn't realised he'd been feeling until it was gone. He had not wanted the woman, or what he now knew to be her brother, to be handed a death sentence. Tristan himself had not been able to deliver the final, fatal blow to her when they'd first crossed blades. But then, he knew that that would never have been Arthur's ruling. He put even Galahad to shame when it came to matters of mercy and diplomacy. However, he never hesitated to draw his sword when the need arose and it was this quality that made him an admirable leader.

No, he would never have ordered their deaths.

Tristan had thought it possible that they might have been sent on to a larger estate, perhaps one owned by someone that Arthur deemed fair in the treatment of their servants and slaves. Slavery was not a new concept under Roman rule. The Sarmatian's had an obvious distaste for the practise, being trapped in indentured servitude to the Empire themselves. Arthur himself did not keep slaves and he abhorred the mistreatment of such people, but it was still an acceptable aspect of everyday Roman life. Females and young boys were always in the most danger in such circumstances. Arthur might have found a situation for them where he knew the Master would have treated them fairly and rewarded hard work, perhaps even one inclined to grant his slaves freedom after some time. Tristan hid the smile that played on his lips at the thought of any Master trying to bring Kyla under their thumb.

As Kyla turned to him once more, her eyes shining with a hope she was trying to suppress, one hand reaching behind her to make contact with the boy, she sought Tristan's confirmation once again. He nodded in the affirmative. Arthur was as straight as an arrow, he would hold true to his word.

Did he like that she looked to him for reassurance? He found that he shouldn't have, but he did. Arthur missed nothing, Tristan could tell he had noted the interaction, once again.

“Jols, ready some food and water for our travellers, and check over their injuries if need be. Galahad, tell the sentinels at the Deminutus Gate to expect three passing through. And Tristan,” Arthur turned to him with calculating eyes, ”please escort our 'guests' as far as you deem safe, but hurry back, we have much to discuss. Bors, I'm calling a meeting upon Tristan's return, let the others know”

A meeting? Perhaps there had been news from Londinium after all. Tristan tried not to dwell on the implications.

Jols and the Knights all acknowledged their orders with a nod to their leader.

“You're dismissed.” Arthur's eyes fell upon the Picts once more. “Deliver my message...and I hope our paths don't cross in future.”

It may have sounded harsh, but Tristan understood Arthur's sentiment. It wasn't a threat, just a wish to not be in this same situation again.

“...thank you.” The words were whispered fiercely, the woman now clinging tightly to the boy at her side. Tristan took this as his cue.

 

“Follow me”

 

He filed out behind the others, with Kyla and her brother falling into step behind him, feeling the weight of Arthur's scrutiny as they left.

 

At the gates of the building all the men peeled off in various directions to their appointed tasks. Galahad left with a grin. Bors clapped his hand upon Tristan's shoulder before he left.

 

“A meeting, today could be our day, Tris.” he grinned.

 

Tristan mirrored the gesture, squeezing down on his brother's shoulder, letting a little bit of the burly man's excitement transfer into him. Just for a moment. Yet even now, he was guarded. His defences went up again. This wasn't the first time this year they had thought their freedom was imminent.

 

“We'll see, brother.”

 

Bors transferred his hand to the back of Tristan's neck, firmly drawing his forehead close to his own.

 

“Well, hurry the fuck back then.” Bors laughed, releasing him again. Tristan couldn't help but smirk. Bors was brash, loud and always said exactly what was on his mind.

 

Tristan watched his brother Knight swagger away for a moment before turning back to the Picts, who abruptly stopped their hushed yet lively conversation once his focus was upon them. From Kyla's earlier remonstrations he gathered the boy's name was Calum.

 

“This way.” Tristan headed in the direction of the stables, not bothering to check if the siblings followed. He was their papers out of here, they would stay close.

 

_'Kyla'_ , the name suited her. The picture of her in his head was becoming more complete. It was like her name made her more 'real' to him, and every moment in her company revealed a little more.

 

When she had placed herself between the boy and the Romans he had assumed she was just reacting to the situation as she would for any random Woad child. It was immediately apparent that they were familiar with one another though. It had crossed his mind that it may have been her son, she was certainly old enough to have young, but then he considered the boy was maybe a little too old.

 

A brother, that made sense. Though in appearance they didn't have much in common. He was fair and fine where she was all dark and wavy.

 

The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. He had her name and, through Arthur's interrogation, he now knew the catalyst for her seemingly needless attack on him. It was one of the things that had been bothering him about this whole sorry mess. Knowing now that Calum was near and that Kyla had sacrificed herself, most likely to give the boy a chance to get away or hide, drew Tristan's esteem. As he lead them closer to the stables, weaving through the bustling streets, he recalled her speaking aloud before her acceptance of her apparent fate at the edge of his blade. Tristan had thought then that it was a prayer, he realised now that she was most likely communicating a warning to the boy. Not that it seemed to have done much good, he thought with amusement.

Her actions were no longer a mystery yet he admired her more knowing the reasons behind them. Women _should_ be fierce, especially when protecting their own. She'd make an indomitable mother... but then, perhaps she already was one, as far as he knew.

 

Tristan moved more quickly, getting a little angry now. What care he if she had a man and a family waiting for her return. He ignored the low conversation that followed behind him like a shadow. It was almost rhythmic in it's unfolding. Calum asked a question and Kyla bit back a short reply and what sounded like an entreaty to be quiet. Tristan counted his blessings that he didn't have any siblings. At this pace it didn't take long for the trio to reach the stables, situated near the double arched entrance of the fort. Usually the stable hands would have Saratos saddled and ready, tethered outside the structure, but with no time to give them notice Tristan entered to retrieve his steed.

 

He generally tended to the care of his stallion himself, making time each day to brush him down, making sure he was fed, checking him over for injuries. As he moved inside he gave a low whistle and was greeted with a loud whinny as the large dappled head bobbed over a stable door. All the Knights who had been conscripted into Roman service had left their village with little else but the weapons by their side and the sturdy steed that carried them, travelling with them across an Empire to this green and desolate land.

 

Saratos was sired from Akkas, his father's stallion that was gifted to him upon his leave and accompanied him to Briton. Akkas was a fiery tempered mount and he did well by Tristan in his earlier years of service. Sarratos was sired nine years ago before Akkas was let out to pasture and Tristan's bond to the wilful colt was immediate.

 

The airy stables were always a source of comfort to Tristan. The arena-style layout was a good space for training horses as well as Knights. When readying for battle this was where the brothers would congregate, readying their weapons in a focused and anticipatory fashion.

 

Usually Tristan enjoyed what time he spent here, but today he wanted nothing more than to hasten his exit from the place.

 

He glanced at Kyla, nodding his head towards the bleachers to one side.

“Wait there.” he commanded.

 

She obeyed him instantly and without hesitation, which was refreshing, steering the boy in the direction he indicated. Her body betrayed her eagerness, even as she tried to school her face into passivity. She practically thrummed with energy.

 

With practised movements Tristan lead his horse out into the arena, not bothering to tie him still, and proceeded to retrieve and fit his saddle and bridle to the currently docile animal. There was comfort in the routine, the smell of the leather, the tug and pull of fastening buckles. When he stood on the far side of the horse, out of sight of his charges, he leaned into Sarratos's warm, sturdy frame to syphon some of his strength, patting his think neck in return. He quickly squashed any negative thoughts that tried to surface regarding the woman's departure.

 

He was glad she was leaving. Good riddance. One does not miss the thorn in one's side.

 

His frown returned.

 

The Pict had successfully managed to quell the young boy's incessant stream of questioning and he felt their eyes follow his every movement as he came around to fix the length of the stirrup closest to them. His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of Jols, arms full with a heavy satchel. He must have thoroughly raided the tavern, Tristan thought.

 

Jols nodded to Tristan and made his way to the Woads, who stood at his approach.

 

“Bread, cheese and water,” he handed Kyla the bag, “and a pot of that ointment I've been using as well as fresh wrappings. You should be good for today...“ he said as he cast a critical eye over her various injuries, noting the bandaging was still intact and no blood had seeped through after her obvious scuffle. “Unless you see blood appearing later, wait until tomorrow to change the dressing, and once you have a chance to rest let the air get at it, it'll heal faster.” he instructed sagely.

 

Tristan watched their interaction stoically, arms crossed as he leaned back against his mount, finished with his ministrations to the beast. Jols had his back to him, but he could clearly see the girl, her face softened as she looked upon the healer and accepted the offering. That softness was not something he had ever been on the receiving end of, and Tristan berated himself for the twinge of jealousy.

 

“And you, young man,” Jols shifted his attention to the boy, crouching down slightly to inspect him, “Hmm, nothing that won't be right as rain in a day or two. I dare say you'll survive.”

 

The boy cast his gaze briefly up to his sister as he was addressed, questioning her silently, but returned a look if disgust to the man in front of him as his hair was tussled in a friendly fashion.

 

“Time to move” Tristan called brusquely, patience wearing thin, wanting to get this whole thing over and done with and well behind him.

 

“Be safe” Jols said sincerely, before turning and giving Tristan a respectful nod on his way out.

 

Tristan stalked towards the couple, another low whistle had the horse clopping close behind.

 

Kyla took a moment to tentatively loop the satchel over her head and across her body, careful not to jar her injuries. She stepped forward to meet the Knight, the boy hot on her heels.

 

“You'll both be riding Saratos.” Tristan informed her, stepping to one side to allow her access to the saddle. She eyed him warily, no doubt bitterly remembering the last time she'd been on the horse, yet she still eagerly stepped closer, trusting that this time her destination was more favourable. Tristan wondered at her faith in Arthur, and himself. He knew it wasn't misplaced but he questioned her acceptance. Was she blinded by hope, or had she weighed all her options up as she had seemed to do on many occasions before now. He gave her the benefit of the doubt, and presumed the latter.

 

“Grip the top of the saddle, I'll take your knee and boost you up.” Tristan explained quietly, her proximity making him lower his volume, his tone a little less harsh than before.

 

She glanced at the boy at her back, and Tristan assumed she relayed what was going on to him, he nodded in return.

 

When her gaze returned back to him her face was intense and calm, her eyes were no longer fiery with challenge though they did sparkle with a hidden warmth.

 

“I'm ready” she murmured confidently, reaching up to hold on to the saddle. Tristan stepped even closer, curling his body over hers as he reached down to grab the knee she had raised up, his other hand cradling under her ankle. He attempted to ignore the heat he could feel emanating from her body as her dark curling hair tickled his face. Tristan did his best to keep a respectable distance between them, while at the same time being hyper aware of the female form compliant under his touch. With one powerful lift she was up and throwing her other leg over the saddle and he was stepping away. Kyla winced noticably as she settled herself, her feet finding the stirrups.

 

Tristan turned to the boy. Calum may not have looked much like his sister in appearance but that damnable chin was held high in challenge as the Knight looked down on him. Tristan fought the smirk that the similarity evoked.

 

Calum stepped forward, a show of bravery, which lacked some conviction when he yelped slightly in surprise as Tristan swooped down to grab him by the waist and tossed him up to sit behind Kyla on Saratos's rump.

 

Without waiting for them to settle and ignoring the boy's excited babbling, Tristan set out through the stable entrance and made his way out of the fort gates, the horse and his cargo keeping pace behind him.

 

He turned sharply left along the fort wall, heading towards the the Deminitus Gate. The Amplus Gate was much larger and could allow access to four horses abreast, as well as carts and chariots, it hadn't been opened in many years. It was only necessary when large groups were crossing the Wall, and that had not happened in a long time. Few ventured into Woad territory, Tristan being one of less than a dozen, and the scarce Roman settlements beyond the Wall were self contained and rarely left the relative safety of their estates.

 

The Dimunutus Gate was therefore used more occasionally. It was barely wide enough for one horse and rider and was heavily fortified. Galahad had clearly been before them as the soldiers on duty had the gate already open and waiting for their arrival, they nodded as the the Knight passed, used to his coming and going.

 

Tristan lead them along the Wall for some time, keeping his own counsel as his thoughts whirred through all that had happened over the past days. He seemed to be struggling to locate the relief he should be feeling now that the Woads and their fate were no longer his responsibility. Upon the horse Calum seemed intent on engaging Kyla in conversation, but she seemed to shoot him down more often than she indulged him.

 

They eventually settled into an uneasy silence, the sound of Saratos's hooves setting a rhythmic beat of the passing of time. Upon nearing the next outpost station on the Wall Tristan left it's shadows and made his way across the expanse of land that separated it from the forest. Tristan stayed vigilant, eyes sharp for a welcome party. Kyla's village lay further to the West so it was unlikely that they would encounter any of her folk at this section, which is what had made Tristan choose it. His seething thoughts churned as he kept his pace fast, not succumbing to the urge to draw out this last interaction with the wilding woman who had so ensnared his attention. He tried to dwell on the meeting that awaited him when he got back, of the prospect of a date for the Kinghts release, final freedom to come and go as they please. To lay their weapons down and pick up where they had left their lives. Tristan couldn't imagine a life that didn't see him with a sword in his hand. He was not built for tending a herd or steering a plough. He hadn't given much thought before now about what he would do.

 

As they neared the trees Tristan took the horses reins, slowing his steps and positioned the animal and it's riders between him and the forest, making himself less of a target on the off chance they were being watched. He moved them just into the tree-line before coming to a stop.

 

He looked at Calum expectantly, raising his arms to indicate he would catch the boy. Calum's face was flushed and happy, clearly having enjoyed his journey on the horse. He slid off the animal's back into Tristan's waiting hands. Once his feet were firmly planted on the ground once more, Calum beamed up at the Knight, eyes alight with mirth and Tristan couldn't help the amused smirk he gave back in return. Brave kid.

 

A sharp word from Kyla had Calum's smile dropping immediately, and whatever she had said had him looking worried and scarpering behind a nearby tree. Tristan turned to face her once more, a look of interest on his face at the change in tone. Kyla looked worried and wary once more. Maybe her faith in Arthur was wavering.

 

She swung her right leg over the horses bent neck as she had done before, now sitting facing the Knight. After a moment to wonder if the gesture was a waste of time or not, Tristan stepped closer to her again, hands raised slightly in the same offering he had given to Calum. Kyla had the most peculiar look on her face, once he couldn't decipher, before she nodded her assent with a serious air.

 

She leaned forward so that she slowly began to slide off the polished leather, and when Tristan's hands found her hips he couldn't help but take great care in slowly lowering her to her feet. Kyla winced nonetheless for the movement, leaning forward into Tristan and placing a hand upon his chest as she grunted slightly, head bowed in discomfort. After gathering herself for a moment and suddenly aware of what she was doing Kyla's startled face turned up to meet Tristan's.

 

She literally took his breath away.

 

Tristan had stopped breathing, as if even a breath would shatter the moment, scare her away for good. The tips of her fingers had rested at the opening of his tunic, with no fabric to create a barrier between the contact that seemed to burn against his skin. Tristan could feel his heart thumping solidly beneath her hand and he worried that she could actually hear it beating. Her fingers curled slightly, as if testing the contact.

 

Kyla hadn't pulled away and Tristan tried not to react to the surprise of her voluntary closeness, waiting to see what she would do. She stared up at him, looking lost, confused. Tristan noted how her lips parted slightly, her breaths coming quickly. Kyla's eyes dipped down to focus on his lips. She subconsciously bit down on her lower lip in what seemed to be an anxious gesture that had Tristan fixated, before raising her green eyes to meet his once again. Tristan sensed a heat behind her gaze, though it looked like she was fighting it. Her body however had leaned in that bit closer and Tristan couldn't fight the urge to squeeze his hands tighter on her hips in reaction.

 

Like that, the spell that had woven between them was broken. Kyla used her hand on his chest to sharply push herself upright once more, taking a step away, creating more than just a physical distance between them. Where there had been sparks that hinted at fire was now icy cold. Tristan began to feel a simmering anger, he was too confused to tell whether it was towards the Pict or self directed. He forced himself to look on her and see her as he should, Rome's enemy. His enemy.

 

Kyla was scowling, her own face settling into a mask of contempt, her body tense.

 

“What now, Sarmatian?” she demanded quietly, mistrust evident in her timbre.

 

Tristan worked hard to school his face back to his usual indifference.

 

“Now you go...” he growled, his voice betraying his inner turmoil, “...and you never come back.”

 

 

 

***************************************************************************************

 

**Hey you guuuuuuuys!**

**This has been a long time coming. So any of you that have clung on this long know that the chapters for this are few and far between, I think you all know what you've signed up for by now. I thank you for your kind support and continued patience.**

 

**My inspiration and opportunities to write don't come around that often. I go through a cycle of reading for months and then finally get the urge to write again. Unfortunately the last two writing marathons I've had where to outline another fanfic and for an original story, so they sucked up all my creativity on those spells before I refocused on this one, apologies!**

 

**We're getting close to merging with the film plot now, and hopefully I can take some liberties with scene setting (etc) as all the readers will be familiar with the movie.**

 

**I want to point out that Tristan's anger and frustration towards Kyla in the end of the scene is more directed at himself. I've tried hard to balance Tristan's sexual interest in Kyla with his moral awareness that he held power over her that he did not and would not abuse that. On the flip side I hope I have also given Kyla the right impetus to also be attracted to Tristan, without detracting from the violence and seriousness of their meeting. It's a hard one to harmonize. I hope I am succeeding.**

 

**All your thoughts are welcome, feedback keeps this story alive and knowing there's an audience is what keeps me coming back to it.**

 


	24. Chapter 24

**The Woad In The Woods**

**Chapter 24**

 

 

The scowl didn't drop from Kyla's face as she watched Tristan mount his horse, though she did let out the breath she had been holding. She was finally convinced that he wasn't going to actually kill them now that he was settled back in his saddle, the distance between them welcome. His only visible weapon was his wickedly curved sword which was now thankfully out of their reach. Tristan cast a wary glance beyond the trees further into the depths of the woods, constantly vigilant for threats. Kyla wondered if he ever really relaxed and let his guard down.

 

 

Apparently satisfied that he was in no danger his eyes found hers again. Though his hair partially acted as a shield she met his stormy gaze without flinching. He offered her no well wishes, and she returned the favour, willing him to go with every fibre of her being. He seemed only too eager to oblige.

 

 

Tristan expertly pirouetted Saratos on the spot and with the barest of encouragement set the horse to gallop. They sped away as if wolves were snapping at their heels. Kyla backed up towards the tree that she had directed Calum to take refuge behind, not taking her eyes off the Knight as he rode away.

 

 

“ _ **Kyla?”**_ Calum enquired.

 

 

“ _ **Hush”**_ she commanded. Absently she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips. They still tingled where they had come into contact with Tristan's bare chest. For a moment there she had forgotten who he was, who _she_ was, who they were to each other.

 

 

Upon contact all she could focus on was the strong and capable male beneath her fingertips. As their eyes met Kyla's senses were suddenly overwhelmed by his proximity. He smelled pleasantly of leather and horse, with a faint hint of sweat. Her mind associated it with the only bit of comfort she'd had over this entire episode, the heavy wool cloak he had placed upon her shoulders when she had felt at her lowest. She was distracted by the steady beating of his heart under her hand and the heat that emanated from his body. A primal part of her subconscious whispered that he would make a worthy partner, he would be a fine provider and protector, that he would sire strong and healthy babes. As her gaze dropped to his lips, that now seemed so very close, Kyla felt like they were two flints striking off of one another, producing a spark, heat, something to curl yourself around to keep you warm. On a base level she had felt a pull towards him and the added pressure he applied to her hips as well as the heat in his gaze wasn't altogether unpleasant, until her brain re-engaged once more. Snapping out of the spell and disgusted with herself, she had pushed away from him instantly breaking the contact. How could she have forgotten for even a second what this man had put her through, or that he was a lethal instrument of Rome's repression.

 

 

Kyla stood unwavering until Tristan and Saratos were finally out of sight. The moment she knew they were well and truly free she felt overwhelmed, her legs suddenly becoming weak and unable to support her weight. Kyla collapsed to her knees, sitting back down on her ankles, her hands coming up to hide her face as she let out a sob, the reality that it was all finally over crashing down upon her.

 

 

“ _ **Kyla!”**_ Calum cried out, rushing to her side and throwing his arms around her in concern. They rocked back and forth slowly for some minutes as Kyla's body shook. She eventually let her hands drop to her side, face tilting towards the sky as a relieved smile spread across her face. Her arms circled around her little brother, finally returning his embrace as she began to laugh, relief and joy washing over her. Kyla scrubbed at her eyes to brush away the tears, careful not to hurt her bruised face more. Calum was grinning. Kyla rested her forehead upon his, returning the infectious smile.

 

 

“ _ **I'm fine. I'm just happy, pay me no mind.”**_ Kyla sniffed, giving him one last squeeze. ** _“Now, let's get our sorry arses home. Help me up”_**

 

 

Calum dutifully assisted her to her feet. They weren't out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively speaking. They still had a long trek back to the village and Kyla mustered her strength for the journey home. She found reserves of energy she couldn't have possibly known she possessed before now. Her body still ached but it also pumped with energy, eager to get moving. She cast one last doleful glance to where she had last seen Tristan before resolutely turning to the West and starting forward. Calum dashed ahead gleefully, running back towards Kyla when she dropped too far behind before racing ahead again, all the while keeping up a constant flow of bubbly chatter. Kyla had curbed all of his incessant questions and nattering while they had rode Saratos, and now they were free it was as if the dam had broken and they all poured forth in a steady stream.

 

 

“ _ **Oengus is never going to believe this. We've been beyond the Wall. Kyla, we met Arthur!**_ **The** ** _Arthur! He wasn't nearly as big as I thought he'd be, and his teeth weren't pointed like Morleo said they were, and I thought he'd be scarier but he wasn't. What did he say to you? He asked a lot of questions. And Excalibur was right there hanging off his chair! It looked like a regular sword to me. Why did he let us go? They'll never believe that you were captured by Sarmatian Knights. Did you see how they stood down those rotten Romans who nabbed me? You were so fierce when you tackled him. I was so glad to see you. There was only three there, did you see more? I liked Tristan. His horse is_ massive _. We got to ride a_ horse _, Kyla! When we get back I'm going to ask Frang if we can get...”_**

 

 

And on, and on it went for some miles. Kyla successfully managed to turn a deaf ear to the constant chitter and Calum didn't seem to need any response. She had located a decent broken branch along the route which she now used as a walking aide. They picked their way along the forest's edge, the Wall still occasionally coming into view in the distance to their left, a dark reminder that they were not home yet. Her initial burst of energy was waning and as well as her various aches and pains she was also becoming aware of the chill in the air, an indication that Winter had well and truly arrived and had just been teasing them with some warmth up until now. The day she had been out hunting (was that three or four days ago, she couldn't recall) the weather had been unusually warm for the time of year and she had opted to leave her cloak at home. How she wished for it now. Calum had also come similarly unprepared but with the amount of bouncing around he was doing Kyla doubted he was feeling the cold at all. She thought wistfully of Tristan's cloak where she had left it on the cot in her cell. It had been such an odd and comforting gesture at a time when she was feeling her lowest and she really wouldn't mind having it wrapped around her right now. She wondered if he had returned back to the fort yet and retrieved it. Would it smell of her now they way his scent had lingered on the wool, would he even notice? She shook her head, what an odd thought to have.

 

Thinking upon Tristan's return to the fort she wondered at the meeting they were to have, were perhaps having even now. All the Knights had seemed to light up at the prospect, and Galahad had mention something about 'release papers' and a rider from Londinium before Tristan had silenced him.

 

 

There had been talk for decades among the free folk that the Sarmatian Knights were not willing allies of the Roman Empire, though they performed their duties with deadly efficiency. Rumour had it that theirs was a service of debt and duty, as opposed to love and the glory of the Roman Empire. Maybe they would be leaving soon. Kyla perked up at the idea, that would be something worth telling the Elders. Along with Arthur's warning, of course, she thought dismally.

 

 

“ _ **Calum, let's rest for a moment,”**_ she called wearily, the miles and conversations that lay ahead suddenly weighing her down.

 

 

“ _ **Over here”**_ she indicated a fallen tree that would act serviceably as a seat and table. She lay down her walking stick and stiffly took the satchel off over her head. It didn't weigh that heavily but she was relived to be able to put it down. She sat heavily onto the tree with a contented sigh, Calum followed suit, straddling the trunk. Kyla smiled to herself, knowing he was pretending that it was the mighty Saratos beneath him instead.

 

 

“ _ **Right, let's see what we have here.”**_ Kyla inspected the contents of the bag, noting the fresh bandages and little pot of ointment, and began to unpack their lunch; nutty flat breads and a hefty chunk of cheese.

 

 

She spotted the slightly glazed look in Calum's eyes as he watched her divvy out the feast, he was practically drooling, so she made sure to give him the wolf's share. For all his talk he certainly hadn't spent it complaining of an empty stomach. He really was a remarkable lad. Calum wasted no time devouring his lot. Now they were relatively out of danger Kyla found she was overwhelmed by what he had attempted to do for her. Foolish, but so very brave. She couldn't believe their luck, that they were actually on their way back to their village. There where so many 'what ifs' to consider. What if it hadn't been Tristan who had crossed their path? She shuddered to think of meeting Cassius alone in the forest, that would have ended in an entirely different manner. What if Tristan had killed her instead of bringing her to their fort? What if Tristan had not led her to Arthur's chamber at that very moment and they hadn't intercepted the Romans who had captured Calum? It didn't bear thinking about.

 

 

Calum caught her wistful look at him as he self consciously brushed the crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand.

 

 

“ _ **What?”**_

 

 

“ _ **I don't think I've properly thanked you for coming to my rescue.”**_ Kyla smiled indulgently, taking a sip from the waterskin before passing it over to the boy.

 

 

“ _ **Not much of a rescue in the end, was it?”**_ he mumbled, his cheeks reddening.

 

 

“ ** _Well, it'll be all for naught because Aunt Iseabail is going to string us up from the highest tree for making her worry!”_ ** They both laughed and it felt good. In that moment, surrounded by the forest, feasting on hearty food with her little brother, Kyla was truly content. Once they had quieted again Calum's face became serious.

 

 

“ ** _She was crying a lot, y'know, when I told them what happened to you. I've never seen her cry before. I hope I didn't make her cry too, when I left.”_** He sat there pensively, thinking over the ramifications of his actions, the way a seven year old boy never does. His face quickly brightened again though. **_“She's gong to be so happy to see you.”_**

 

 

“ ** _Us! Happy to see_ us _. I've no doubt we've both aged her over night. Come on, finish up and let's not keep her waiting any longer.”_** Kyla rose stiffly, glad to have had the rest but suddenly agitated to move again and start heading inwards, sensing they had come far enough East and wanting to finally leave the Wall far behind them. Calum seemed just as eager and refreshed from their break, 'dismounting' from the log enthusiastically.

 

 

Taking up her stick again Kyla forged ahead of them, locating a natural path heading North that would take them in the right direction. Calum, thankfully, had reverted to keeping his rambling thoughts internal for now and they both made good time in companionable silence. Kyla's sharp eyes stayed vigilant, searching constantly for any sights that looked familiar. Her heart skipped a beat when they came upon a gnarled ancient oak that she definitely recognised.

 

 

“ **_I know this tree!”_** she told Calum, grinning as she began to map out in her head where they were in relation to the village, estimating they were about a half hour away from reaching it. ** _“Drest climbed right to the top when we were smaller, near broke his neck when he lost his footing on the way back down.”_** She walked straight up to the mighty tree, placing her hand upon it reverently as she gazed up into it's high branches, offering a little prayer of gratitude to see it again.

 

 

“ ** _So we're nearly home?”_** Calum asked hopefully, following her as she made a slow circuit around the thick trunk, her hand trailing along the bark.

 

 

“ ** _Yes, we just have to head this...”_** Kyla froze so abruptly that Calum walked right into her back.

 

 

“ _ **Kyla, why..”**_

 

 

“ ** _Shhhhh!”_** she hissed, reaching an arm behind her, keeping Calum back as she flattened herself against the tree. Peering discreetly around the trunk Kyla confirmed what she had thought she'd spied. There was movement ahead in the forest. Kyla's heart began to hammer in her chest. She had no weapon bar the stick she carried and her grip tightened around it. Controlling her breathing she tried to make out what or who was coming towards them but there was too much foliage in the way to see. Grateful Calum was taking her directions seriously and keeping quiet, she strained to hear what approached.

 

 

Faintly, she could hear voices, _male_ voices, getting incrementally louder, though she still could not make out what was being said. She couldn't even decipher how many voices there were.

 

 

She turned her head and caught Calum's eye, he looked shook. She put one finger to her lips in a gesture to remain quiet, then fluttered her fingers to indicate he move a few steps back so they were more covered by the tree. She took the stick in both hands, holding it as she would a fighting staff, and waited.

 

 

The voices became clearer as they drifted closer to their hiding place, and Kyla began to make out words... _Pictish_ words.

 

 

“ _ **...hasty...”**_

 

 

“ _ **...you can't just...”**_

 

 

“ _ **...listen to what they...”**_

 

 

“ _ **...don't care...shouldn't have waited...never forgive myself...”**_

 

 

“ _ **...what do you plan on doing exactly?...You can't just go charging in their blindly. We'll come with you, of course, we're just asking you to exercise some restraint, think this through. Frang...”**_

 

 

Kyla and Calum looked at each other, momentarily stupefied, before their eyes lit up with mirth and they broke out in beaming grins. Calum was first off the mark, racing around the tree to intercept the men that were just reaching the clearing. Kyla felt like there was a lump in her throat, already overwhelmed by the reunion and the prospect of finally arriving home.

 

 

“ _ **Frang!”**_

 

 

“ _ **...Calum?”**_

 

 

Hearing her Uncle's voice and the timbre of hope and awe it held set Kyla's eyes to watering as she rounded the tree herself, letting the stick fall to the soft ground.

 

 

Frang had dropped to one knee to catch the boy who was happily launching himself into his arms.

 

 

“ _ **Calum!”**_

 

 

Frang stood upright once more, crushing the boy in a bear hug between his vast arms. The man was an intimidating specimen by anyone's standards. He was tall and imposing, but had a gentle nature and always had ready smile.

 

 

“ ** _I thought I'd never see you again, boy.”_** Frang mumbled into Calum's neck.

 

 

Frang was accompanied by his two closest friends, Uvan and Elpin, the only two in the whole village who were pig headed enough to go along with whatever mad scheme he had set out on. Elpin was the first one to notice Kyla.

 

 

“ _ **Well I'll be damned...”.**_ His tone was hushed.

 

 

Calum, knowing the source of such an exclamation, smiled smugly at Frang then craned his head around to look at Kyla, drawing Frang's attention to her. Calum was lucky he wasn't dropped immediately.

 

 

Frang had gone white as a ghost and if he had stood with that expression much longer he would have caught flies. Calum laughed, placing his hand under Frang's chin, pushing his mouth shut which resulted in an audible clicking of teeth.

 

Frang slowly lowered the boy back to the ground, his eyes not leaving Kyla's as he stalked towards her, his face troubled.

 

 

“ ** _Kyla, girl...are you real?”_** he asked quietly, his eyes darting around her face, taking in the bumps, bruises and split lip. His hand ghosted over her cheek as if she'd disappear like an apparition if he made contact.

 

Klya moved her face minutely so that it was cradled in his large callused hand. She closed her eyes as she leaned in to the touch, the tears finally falling freely down her cheeks. He drew her closer into a tight embrace and all her hurts and sorrows melted away in the shelter of his arms. She could finally lay her burden down.

 

 

“ _ **I'm real...I'm home”**_

 

 

...ooOoo...

 

 

Tristan stood and raised his goblet in unison with his leader and brothers. Such occasions called for a toast even though there were more empty seats than occupied at the round table, a constant reminder of their brethren who had gone before them. To finish year fifteen with so few of their numbers remaining was disheartening, but finally the end was in sight.

 

 

“It has been my great pleasure and an honour to fight by your side.” Arthur began.

“You who have sacrificed so much for Rome, at great expense to yourselves. I thank you for your loyalty, and your friendship. Three days hence we are to meet a convoy of Roman soldiers who will be escorting Bishop Germanus to Badon Hill. As your last duty to Rome we will accompany them safely to the fort and upon arrival Bishop Germanus will deliver the papers releasing you from your duty to Rome and affording you safe passage throughout the Empire. You have earned this through blood and sweat, a hundred times over. I could not have asked for better men to stand shoulder to shoulder with. You, and those who have fallen before us, have my eternal gratitude.”

 

 

It was no shock that Bors was the one to initiate a resounding cry of 'Rus!' which they all contributed to. Tristan drained the last of his wine, slamming the goblet down upon the wooden surface once more.

 

 

...ooOoo...

 

 

 

**A/N – Surprised I got the time to get this chapter together to be honest, have been flat out busy as usual. Interesting to start weaving in the movie plot now. I actually went back and read this whole thing over the past few days, it's been so long since I wrote Chapter 1 and I'd like to think my writing style has gotten a bit better over the years. Has refreshed a lot of bits and pieces for me also. Well done everyone who has stuck with it for so long! (and welcome to new readers also!)**

 

**So Kyla is nearly home, finally! I think she's held her shit together for quite long enough and deserves a little r &r. Tristan is determined to move on now that she's gone and he has the end of their duties to focus on. Fear not, their paths will cross again. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder ;)**

 


	25. Ch. 25

**Chapter 25**

 

Frang had insisted on carrying Kyla home, declaring she was in no fit state to make the short walk. After debating about if for a few minutes Kyla ended the argument by giving him a swift punch on the arm and declaring she'd gotten this far on her own and she wasn't a child, to which he glumly conceded.

 

As a compromise to his fatherly fussing she was now happily nestled into his side, her arm around his waist and his around hers, taking some of her weight in the process. It was comforting and grounding at the same time, no longer having to be the strong one, handing over the reins and letting someone else guide her.

 

 

Calum, on the other hand, had no qualms about accepting Uvan's offer to ride on his shoulders. As they walked ahead Kyla could hear that he had picked up his monologue of events with gusto, to which Uvan and Elpin were listening intently, with occasional curious glances back at her which made her feel uncomfortable.

 

 

“ _ **I just can't believe you're really back, though you look like you've been through the wars.”**_ Frang spoke softly, giving her a gentle squeeze as if to confirm she wouldn't disappear.

 

 

“ _ **I can't really believe it myself.”**_ she replied with a small self-depricating laugh, slightly overwhelmed at the reality of it all. _**“I didn't think I would ever make it back, ever see you, or Iseabail, or Calum again.”**_

 

 

“ _ **How is it even possible, Kyla, What happened? Calum came running back in a state after you went hunting three days ago. He was near incoherent at first . Once he'd calmed down and told us that he had heard the sounds of a fight in the direction you had gone and that you'd called out to him to stay hidden, and to warn the village of someone's presence... we assumed it was a Roman...”**_ Frang's speech halted momentarily, causing Kyla to glance up to see that his face was haunted, caught up in reliving that terrible moment. She knew then how truly tortured he had been by her absence. She could only imagine the scenarios that had played through his head since Calum had told them. When he looked at her again his expression melted into one of wonder. _**“How is it possible we have our Kyla back?”**_

 

 

Kyla sighed. _**“It was a Scout...a Sarmatian Knight...”**_

 

 

Frang's step faltered. Seeing the blood drain from his face Kyla encouraged him forward again with a tug on his waist as she hurriedly spoke on.

 

 

“ _ **I spotted his horse on my way back to Calum, he was so close to where I'd left him...I attacked...it was stupid...but he had noticed me by then and I didn't think I had any other choice...I didn't know he was a Sarmatian Knight at that point...”**_ Kyla muttered, trying her best to justify her actions.

 

 

Frang stopped briefly, digesting what she had said, before picking up their slow pace once more.

 

 

“ _ **Go on”**_ he said pensively.

 

 

“ _ **Well...I lost the fight...obviously...if I'd known he was...well, it would have made no difference, I still would have attacked I guess...”**_ Kyla glanced up at Frang but his eyes where on the path ahead, eyebrows low in a frown, listening intently. He nodded for her to go on.

 

 

“ _ **He didn't kill me...he could have...I don't really know why...I was knocked unconscious and when I came to I was tethered to his damn horse. I'd been cut by his blade a couple of times and my wounds were bandaged up.”**_ Kyla sighed again, the burden of telling her tale already beginning to grow wearisome as she catalogued her mistakes. She didn't want to go into the details of their journey to Badon Hill; being tricked into riding Saratos, the small fort and the hungry eyes of the soldiers there.

 

 

“ _ **He brought me to the compound at Badon Hill.”**_ Kyla could see Frang shake his head minutely in amazement, but he said nothing, giving her space to continue.

 

 

“ _ **The other Knights were there...I was placed in a cell.”**_

 

 

At this statement Frang's hold briefly got tighter. Kyla imagined what he was thinking and set his mind to rest immediately.

 

 

“ _ **I wasn't...they didn't...**_ **touch** _ **me.”**_ she rushed to say awkwardly, and she felt Frang's shoulders rise and fall as he took in a large shaky breath and let it out again slowly.

“ _ **I was seen to by a healer and given food, water. The next morning I was interrogated...the interpretor roughed me up”**_ Kyla indicated vaguely to her face and stomach but decided that it was best to keep Frang in the dark about the details of how Cassius had manhandled her during questioning.

 

 

“ _ **He was Roman, the Sarmatians weren't happy about it, they weren't there at the time.”**_ Kyla wondered why she was making a distinction, excusing the Sarmatians of their role in that part of her ordeal however truthful it may be. **“That was yesterday, the healer came back and patched me up again, gave me willow bark tea for the pain...”**

 

 

Kyla drifted off, remembering how Tristan had cradled her body as she drank the bitter brew. She recalled how he had been gentle and had blown on the hot liquid to cool it down some before he offered it to her. Kyla shook her head to clear the image away.

 

 

Frang didn't press her, waiting in silence for her to pick up the story again, slowly making their way closer to the village.

 

 

“ _ **This morning I was taken to Arthur.”**_ Kyla took a deep breath before continuing, _**“It was on the way to this meeting that we came across Calum in the hands of some Roman soldiers“**_ she growled sourly, transported back to that hellish moment. _**“They said they caught him trying to**_

_**scale the Wall. They were taunting him, a crowd of people all jeering at his expense. I lost it, slipped the hold I was in and tackled the fucker who had him...”** _

 

 

Kyla felt undeserving of the look of admiration Frang was giving her, and quickly added, _**“...the Sarmatians intervened, brought us to Arthur.”**_

 

 

Frang shook his head with sorrow. _**“We didn't realise he was gone until this morning. He must have slipped out in the middle of the night. We were all so frustrated that nothing was being done to find you. Calum brought us back to where it had happened and we found the horse tracks and followed them to the edge of the forest heading towards the Wall. The Elders spent all day yesterday debating what was to be done. I knew Calum was angry, but I swear I never suspected he would have done something so...so...reckless!”**_

 

 

“ _ **Well I certainly wasn't expecting to see him there. Seeing him was like someone had plunged me into an icy river.”**_ Kyla nudged Frang ** _“He's safe now, that's all that matters.”_**

 

 

“ _ **And Arthur?”**_ Frang probed further.

 

 

Kyla looked sidelong at her Uncle as she replied. _ **“Apparently there have been attacks on the section of the Wall relatively close to the village.”**_

 

 

Frang shook his head as if the information was unexpected. _**“This is news to me. I've not heard of any attacks. Who could be doing such a thing?”**_ Kyla was relieved to see the truth in his answer, secretly glad he wasn't involved.

 

 

“ _ **That was why Tristan...the Scout, was here in the first place, looking for evidence of a settlement and where the attacks stemmed from”**_

 

 

Frang raised an eyebrow at Kyla's use of Tristan's name but kept his thoughts to himself as she internally cursed herself for the slip.

 

 

“ _ **Arthur offered us our freedom if we delivered the message to cease the attacks, and to say that the patrols on the Wall would be doubled from now on...”**_ Kyla trailed off again. She glanced wistfully ahead of them as the first building of the village came into view. Up ahead Elpin, Uvan and Calum had just been spotted by someone returning from the river with a jug of water. An excited cry of joy was called out in recognition and so the news was cast from one dwelling to another, permeating deeper into the village as people emerged from their homes to see what all the excitement was about.

 

 

“ _ **Let's not worry over the hows and whys just now, there'll be plenty of time to speak later.”**_ Frang beamed at the growing crowd, currently giving Calum a hero's welcome.

 

 

Calum was in his element, soaking up the excitement and amazement at his reappearance. Someone spotted Kyla and cried out her name in awe, soon joined by a chorus of similar exclamations. Frang kept her close as they approached.

 

 

“ _ **Right now I want Torra to look you over, I don't trust these Roman healers as far as I can throw them.”**_

 

 

Kyla gave a small smile in reply, thinking almost fondly on Jols. The thoughts of seeing Torra filled her with comfort, which was good because she was quickly being overwhelmed with the buzzing villagers that now surrounded them. It was comforting to be surrounded by so many familiar faces, faces she'd thought she'd never look upon again. Kyla was being engulfed in a sea of well wishes, and at the crescendo one figure pushed her way through the crowd to stand in front of her.

 

 

The congregation momentarily hushed and made space for the small woman, dark mane peppered with grey, who's face had lost all of it's colour.

 

 

“ _ **Iseabail”**_ Kyla spoke softly, her vision beginning to blur once more as she looked upon her Aunt. Iseabail's hands rose to cover her mouth, her own eyes crinkling and spilling over with tears. Shakily her hands moved to frame Kyla's face.

 

 

“ _ **My girl, my dear, sweet girl. I didn't believe my ears just now when they said you were back”**_ she sighed softly. _**“You are a sight for sore eyes.”**_

 

 

Both women broke into a smile and collapsed into each others arms. Kyla rested her head on her Aunt's shoulder as Iseabail clung to her, her hand running through the younger woman's hair in a fierce, soothing fashion.

 

 

Their embrace was interrupted by the smaller body that threw his arms around them both, garnering their attention.

 

 

Calum beamed up at them.

 

 

Iseabail scrubbed the tears from her eyes and frowned down at him.

 

“ _ **Don't get me started on you, you are in a world of trouble, young man!”**_

 

 

Callum's grin disappeared.

 

 

“ _ **What!?”**_

 

 

 

..oooOooo..

 

 

 

Tristan's evening had been spent as many evenings before had come to pass. The Knights had made their way to their usual haunt, the tavern. Gambling, revelry and far too much alcohol had ensued.

 

 

His brothers were in high sprirts with the news that the end of their sentence was tantalisingly near. Close enough to touch, close enough to smell, but still just out of reach. It was the announcement they had all been waiting for for months now and, though bitter sweet, it had put everyone in fine form.

 

 

Lancelot was cheating at a game of chance with some Roman soldiers, as usual. Dagonet and Bors were deep in their cups, Bors talking with a fierce passion, gesticulating wildly as Dag stoically and intently listened. Vanora made sure to keep the beer flowing. Even the large man had over indulged for once and was visibly swaying in his chair.

 

 

After some cajoling by his fellow Knights to include himself in their antics they had eventually given up and Tristan had kept to himself, propped up in a chair in the corner, feet on a stool and crossed comfortably at the ankles with a view of the entire yard. His brothers knew well enough by now that if Tristan was inclined to join in then he would, but if not there was nothing that could be said to persuade him otherwise. Thus he was left alone to his own thoughts.

 

 

His emotions were mixed, and that was a fact that bothered him to no end. He too had taken enthusiastically to downing his drinks in an attempt to chase the feelings away. As the alcohol had spread warmly through his body it had made his mind blissfully hazy. Inevitably his meditation on the dawning reality of leaving this wild land strayed to the Pictish woman he had escorted to the forest's edge. He wondered if she had made it back safely to her village. It was now fully dark, even with her injuries they should have made good time. Perhaps she was already ensconced in a lover's embrace by now. Tristan's grip tightened on the handle of his mug as he took another deep draught of his beer, scolding himself for letting her cross his mind at all, let alone be bothered by the thoughts of her in the arms of someone else. Good riddance to her! He was glad to see the back of her. He took another long drink, wiping his lips with his sleeve when he was through.

 

 

There had been that one moment though.

 

 

There had been something there, hadn't there? A connection, a spark, a heat? He surely hadn't imagined it. Even though his mind was foggy with inebriation Tristan vividly recalled the feeling of Kyla's fingertips grazing his chest. How she had bitten down on her lower lip to his distraction and gazed at his own lips as her body had leaned in closer. Of how he involuntarily tightened his grip on her hips in response to the look in her eyes. Tristan's cock twitched at the memory.

 

 

But then the spell had been broken. The veil around them had evaporated and reality had prevailed. The truth was that they were enemies and she was out of his life for good.

 

 

Tristan placed his feet on the ground again, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows resting on his knees, one leg bouncing impatiently. He suddenly felt agitated, restless. His body was no longer content to sit and be still. It wanted action, movement. Tristan cast his eye across the yard to where Galahad and Gawain were up to their elbows in Badon Hill's finest whores. By the looks of it Gawain was successfully employing the business of the same woman that Tristan had encountered him with the previous night. She must be his current favourite, his tastes in women were as changeable as the wind. The ladies of the night were always happy to vie for the attention of his youngest brother and Galahad was only too keen to oblige. Most of the Knights preferred to spend good money on good women, not wanting to tie themselves down to a Briton or Roman when their ultimate goal was to return home to wed a Sarmatian lady. Bors being the exception.

 

 

Much as his brothers tended to do, the working girls that frequented the tavern for business knew not to bother wasting their energy on tempting the quiet Scout to an interaction. When he had need of their services he made it known. He caught the eye of one of the many girls plying their trade that evening as she giggled enthusiastically at something Gawain had said. He had noticed her before, but then Tristan made a point of noticing everyone. She was a fairly recent addition to the fort and he recalled Lancelot having positive things to say about her. The woman smiled coyly at him, elbowing the girl to her left slightly to get her attention. Tristan watched as she muttered something to her companion, a smug look on her face as her friend flapped her hands at her excitedly to make haste across the floor.

 

 

She sashayed her way across the yard, a confident look on her pretty face. She was tall and willowy, with long flowing hair the colour of wheat before the reaping. Tristan stood as she approached.

 

 

“You lonely tonight, Scout?” her voice was high pitched and sing-song sweet.

 

 

Tristan nodded at her to follow him out of the noisy drinking hole, which she did earnestly.

 

 

In the darkened alleyway away from the bustle of the tavern she made short work of the laces on Tristan's breeches, seemingly not bothered by the lack of small talk and the location.

 

 

“Just let me take care of you tonight.” she whispered huskily, throwing one arm around his neck, nuzzling him playfully as she slipped her hand in to cup his bulge. Tristan closed his eyes, head lolling back against the wall as he let himself float away on her attentive ministrations. This was something he could happily let his mind linger on. As his passion became inflamed he pulled at the opening of her tunic, freeing her breasts to the cold night air.

 

 

Riding the wave of desire Tristan turned them around and pinned the woman against the wall, his mouth descending on her neck with abandon as one hand came up to eagerly knead her breast. The woman made encouraging noises as she continued to divert her attention to the expert rhythm she was maintaining with her hand. Tristan trailed kisses down her neck, over her collarbone until his lips encircled one pert nipple, dragging it gently between his teeth. Gods but Tristan could find solace in her curves. She was a professional after all, but her receptive murmurings succeeded in keeping Tristan's mind in the moment and it wasn't long before she had lifted her skirts and he was driving into her with ravenous intent.

 

 

She was pliable and simpering, and eager to please.

 

 

She was everything he needed right at that moment.

No names, no messy feelings, no complications.

 

 

She was everything that a certain dark haired wildling woman was not and Tristan threw all of his energy into forgetting.

 

 

He clung to her tightly as he reached climax, letting himself get lost in the moment, the euphoric feeling of bliss, that dissipated all too quickly.

 

 

What he was left with was a feeling of cold indifference, unfulfilled...empty. And he was still quite drunk.

 

 

The agreeable woman tried her best to encourage him back to the tavern to extend their time together but he firmly and politely refused, making sure to compensate her generously for her time, wanting nothing more than to be left alone once again.

 

 

As they finished righting their clothing Tristan felt the weight of her gaze upon him. She stepped in close to him, one hand solemnly cradling his face as she gently placed a kiss upon his cheek. She hesitated for a moment, her hand lingering there as her clear blue eyes searched his and Tristan felt exposed beneath her scrutiny. He fancied that she saw right through his cool façade to the turmoil beneath. Her expression was knowledgeable, and sympathetic.

 

 

For a split second Tristan finally saw her, as an individual, as a person and not a nameless vessel that he had just used for his own gratification. It was too real and raw, and at the point of being unbearable she broke into a well practised smile, her own façade falling back into place. She dropped her hand.

 

 

“Good night, Scout. Should you feel the need again you know where to find me.”

 

 

The pretty girl winked and turned on her heel heading back to the tavern with a bounce in her step and a purse much heavier with coin.

 

 

Tristan watched her go, dejection washing over him. He had thought what he needed was to get lost between a woman's thighs but the brief coupling had only succeeded in making him feel even more dispirited.

 

Gathering himself he made his way slowly, albeit a little clumsily, back to his lodgings.

 

He had made one slight detour on the way back. As Tristan gratefully collapsed onto his bedding he threw his reacquired winter cloak over himself. He buried his face into the wool as he drifted off to sleep and pretended it didn't smell of her.

 

 

 

… **....oooooOOOOOOOOooooo........**

 

**AN - *posts chapter and hides***

 

**I'm still alive! Just super busy. Let me know what you think about Tristan's actions. This was a really tough one to write and I went back and forth between whether he should spurn or accept his desires (and asked the opinions of some trusted friends). I felt like this was more in movie canon for him. The reason I didn't want to name her is because in my mind and in that moment Tristan really does just see her as a body to use to his own ends, in a mutual business transaction.**

 

 

**Also fleshing out a lot of the newer characters and really wanted to get their voices right.**

 

 

**Thank you to everyone who takes the time to like this story, I do really, really appreciate it!**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have this posted on fanfiction.net and thought I would post it up here too in case there is a different audience. Be prepared, I post chapters very infrequently due to a very busy work schedule, but I always come back to it and I have the entire storyline worked out chapter to chapter.
> 
> There are, no doubt, spelling and grammatical errors littered throughout though I do try my best to iron out the kinks before I post, apologies. 
> 
> I'll not be re-writing the author notes that I originally added on each chapter I posted on my FF page. 
> 
> Really hope you enjoy and would love to hear your thoughts x


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